Devil in a Midnight Mass
by vinnie2757
Summary: Seven years have passed since the events of Life Starts Now. The survivors have picked up the pieces and moved on, but there's another evil in town, and it's not just from the Otherworld. It's Arthur's own mind, too. USUK, LSN sequel
1. Mercy Me, I'm Falling Free

**Title: **Devil in a Midnight Mass

**Fandom: **_Axis Powers: Hetalia_

**Author: ** It was me the last I checked.

**Genre: **fluff, angst, romance, adventure, slice of life, AU

**Pairing: **USUK, FrUK bromance, (past) PruCan, SuFin, GerTalia, Spamano, and some other shizzle

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** _Angst_: Dude, it's USUK. _Character death_: mostly background death, but hey, you never know. **I'm not guaranteeing anyone's safety this time.** I got Arthur this far, he's in just as much danger as everyone else now. _Fluff_: a fair bit of it. _Slash_: a lot of it. _Language_: everything bar fuck. _Violence_: blood, gore, torrents of mind-fuckery maybe. You know. The usual. Oh, and uh. Ghosts. And more mind-fuckery.

**Chapter Summary: **Life has continued, and the beginning of the end begins to end.

**A/N: ** Hallo once again, audience! Was that a shameless Tobuscus reference, why yes it was, I fancy the pants off the man, I'm allowed, or something, IDEK. Anyway, here we are, back in for the long haul. So I'm ill, no surprise there – got some kind of chest infection and it hurts to breathe and I can't stop coughing and it feels like there's something lodged in my chest, so what did I go and do? I went and watched HetaOni, didn't I? And promptly, squealed, screamed, cried and laughed my way into a stupid amount of pain. And then I nearly twisted my ankle pacing like a twat. So you know. I suck eggs. But ANYWAY ONWARDS. Notes at the end, some other stuff besides, and OH YEAH! Enjoy my lovelies!

**Chapter One: Mercy Me, I'm Falling Free**

Life continued. Moved on at a steady, uninterrupted pace, as though the darkness hadn't come to tear them apart and put them in places only nightmares could thrive in. It was as though there had been no death, no investigations, no love lost and found and kept. It just was. So they picked up the pieces and moved on, did all they could to tape the cracks of their world shut once more.

A year in prison for obstructing the course of justice. A year in England. A year in America. A year fighting for what they had, what they didn't, fighting to _stay_ and to _go_, and to just _be_.

But the years came and went, the seasons waxed and waned, and they fell into their niche, hit their stride, their little corner of the world gaining momentum and gathering moss, calm and noisy, silence and movement all at once, and it was _right_. Not good, necessarily, but _right_.

And so life continued, even as death lingered, clung to the recesses of minds, leered from the shadows of souls.

"You were screaming in your sleep last night."

It was breakfast, but they weren't at the table. The owner of the house curled himself into his armchair, wrapped in the rattiest pair of tracksuit bottoms any man had ever owned and a faded T-shirt with the worn slogan '_I see dead people'_ emblazoned across it. His socks were odd, his hair dishevelled, and there was a mug of tea in his shaking hands.

"It always rains on my birthday, have you noticed?"

The twenty-third of April had come again, and Arthur Kirkland was thirty years old.

"Don't ignore me."

"I'm not ignoring you, love," Arthur assured idly, though his eyes didn't move from the rain on the window. "I'm merely making an observation. Have you fed Salem?"

An irritated snort, the clink of a mug on the coffee table. "Fine, be that way. _I hope she chokes_."

To which Arthur snorted in amusement, but he didn't reply. For a moment, Alfred Franklin Jones watched him watch the rain, and then he sighed, hauled himself from his seat on the couch and went back into the kitchen. Arthur's eyes flicked to his retreating back, and then he rubbed furtively at his temple, willing the threatening migraine to abate.

He hadn't realised he'd been screaming. It had seemed so real at the time, and he remained convinced at least part of it was. As for which bit, he had no idea.

_Go to the Church of your Fathers. Remember the loose flagstone there? By the door? The one we used to hide letters under? Put a ward on it, hide it under the stone, make it your safe place. Call them to you, Arthur, but keep from becoming what they are._

What did that mean? Why was it _him_ who had to talk to him, why _that_ voice? Did he even know he was being used in such a way? Was he _genuinely_ speaking to him? Or was it his mind fragmenting as he'd been told it would, was he disassociating himself from his life and thinking the dreams were reality?

What was real?

"There," Alfred huffed, throwing himself back onto the couch. "Fed the damn cat. You should be grateful, birthday boy."

"Shut up," Arthur replied, bitter and angry and hurt, confused and tired and lost, because he was the only person to hate having his birthday remembered.

The response was a noisy little yawn from Alfred, a satisfied sigh of cracking joints and loosing muscles. "Where did you put the next load of story sheets? I might as well make a start before Kiku gets up my ass over it."

"On your desk," Arthur told him, attention back on the rain. He took a sip of his tea, and added, "I'm pretty sure you put your coffee mug on them."

"Ah, right." Alfred lingered for a moment, and then crossed the room to cage Arthur into his chair, noses brushing for a second before Alfred worked his way to Arthur's ear, buried his nose behind it. "Why don't you go back to bed? You look like hell."

Finally tearing his eyes from the weather, Arthur gave him a drolly exasperated look. "Thanks, love, thanks for that."

Alfred looked clueless as he backed away to let Arthur get to his feet. "What?" he asked – whined, really – as Arthur made for the stairs. As he followed the older male up them, he whined some more with variations of, "What? What did I say? _Artie_."

"Don't call me that," was all Arthur said in reply.

He staggered, missing the top step, but Alfred's hands were already on his waist, steadying him with a low chuckle, and those same hands didn't leave his waist as he was guided back into his – no, it was _theirs_ now, wasn't it? – bedroom, and he could feel the press of Alfred's fingers against his bones, curling around the cradle of his hips as if measuring. And he was measuring, he did it almost constantly, always measuring, silently weighing his lover, testing him when he thought he wasn't looking.

"I'm fine," he said, as Alfred manhandled him back into bed, and he let him do it, because Alfred would throw a strop and he wouldn't focus and then he'd have to listen to the angry phone calls in Japanese to explain why Alfred hadn't finished the next issue. "I'm fine," he repeated.

Alfred scoffed. "Excuse me if I don't believe you. You weigh, what, eight stone now? And it's still dropping. It's not healthy, Artie."

"And your diet is?" Arthur snapped back, unnecessarily harsh as he yanked the blankets over his head. "Just do your job, would you?"

This was how it always was, he mused angrily, buried under the layers of blankets – hand-stitched patchwork, some of them, some bought, some from Alfred's bedroom back in the Williams-Jones household – and scowling into the artificial darkness, head throbbing. They always argued over weight and food and the state of Arthur's mind.

As if that was its cue, the migraine came flooding in, splitting his eyes and crushing his skull from the inside out. Even though his eyes were screwed shut, even though he was curled into a ball in his bed, he could feel his world swimming, feel the nausea welling in his gut, bile in his throat. His heart thumped against his ribs even as he curled in tighter, breaths stuttering as he tried to calm himself. If Alfred felt it – and he would, there was no denying that – there'd be no getting away from it.

"Artie?" Alfred's voice came from somewhere very far away and somewhere very close all at once, and it broke through the static, through the whining and groaning of the Ghosts shoving at Arthur's brain, at his very soul, breaking his way through even as he tore the blankets from the Englishman's body. "Artie, come on, look at me."

He couldn't, he knew he couldn't. This world now, it wasn't the same, he wouldn't be able to see Alfred properly to look at him. He knew it, and yet still his eyes opened of their own accord, latched onto the vague sun-kissed gold, the wheat-blond, the ever-blue eyes made of sky and sapphires, and there was no logic to the colours, no logic to the shapes, no texture or being, just the vaguest of presences. The air was stale now, the walls white-washed and fog curling in from the open windows. There was no colour here, not really, just the emptiness of the death.

"Artie?" Alfred whispered, worried now. "Come on, look at me, _please_?"

But the more he focused, the more indistinct and vague Alfred became. Even his voice wasn't enough to cut through the fog, leaving him left in nothingness.

He was cursing, Arthur could hear that, nothing would ever take that from him, he knew Alfred far too well for that. But then the silence broke, and it brought with it noise; screaming and shouting, and there was blood all over the walls, glass shattering behind his eyes and Arthur winced against the pressure of it, the weight of the death that surrounded him, curling tighter in on himself even as Alfred's indistinct hands pulled at him, tried to open him out so that Alfred could get in and fight the darkness, and there was nothing that could be done, only endless silence, endless noise.

The chair at the end of the room was occupied. Not Alfred's desk chair, the armchair Arthur curled in when he couldn't sleep. It was an occupant he had never thought to see again, and the batshit insane grin on pale features was as much a blessing as it was a curse. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out, and he received a cackle in response.

"Well, well, well," it said, the accent too familiar, but different somehow. "I've got to say; I'm impressed."

"Wanker," Arthur replied, because there was nothing else his brain, splintered and aching as it was, could think of to say. How _could_ he react?

"That's not very nice. And I've come here bearing important news, too."

"I thought you were _dead_," Arthur whispered.

"I was," the Ghost replied. "Am," it corrected after a split second. The grin never left its face. "But that's the thing, isn't it, Artie? We've got a bit of a problem. You remember the Gateway? The one I threw myself into because I'm totally a selfless bastard like that?"

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Of course I remember, I live in the damn thing these days. Get to the _point_."

"Ooh, snarky. Well anyway, thing is, it's kind of – you know – open again. Me and Mattie, we've been doing some digging on our end, and you – Alexandrus – too, all of us, we've been asking questions, since we're not bound to time and space like you living, unawesome things are."

"Gilbert," Arthur snarled.

That insane grin finally split and turned into something more serious, a frown that more suited Matthew's face than Gilbert's, and even as the East German leant forwards to rest his elbows on his knees, Arthur thought he could see a fleck of lavender in those crimson eyes, blond in the shock of white hair. The marks of his death still littered his skin, of course, and they always would as long as he was on this plain, but there were Matthew's marks there too, a rip in his T-shirt, bare toes curled into the carpet, bruising on his face.

"You see, the thing is, Artie, your… Well, Alexandrus, he was onto something when he said that the Gateway opened onto all plains of existence. But it's not just every plain of existence – and I swear to you now, I swear to God I met an honest-to-God alien the other hour, Alfred would _wet his knickers if he knew_ – but anyway. There are other plains of existence, besides the ones we know. There are other places."

"Get to the point, Gilbert," Arthur told him, a warning note threading its way in.

Gilbert sighed, exasperated. "Fine, fine. Jesus. Anyway, so this Gateway? It opens into Perdition. I know, I know, I think it's a load of shit too, but hell, I've seen a lot of shit these last seven years, and damn if my death wasn't one of the weirdest. I mean, I don't believe in God, and I certainly don't believe in the devil, but wasn't that Ghost of Mattie's a demon? Wasn't it evil? Either way, Perdition? It's a real place, and it's where all the _real_ baddies go. Me and Mattie got back through the Gateway 'cause that's how we went _out_, but we can't stay, it's too dangerous for us. We're here to give you the heads up, and to tell you the obvious."

"Which is _what_, exactly?"

"That it needs to be closed."

"No," Arthur snapped, shaking his head, his world spinning off-kilter with the movement. He clutched at his head and tried to settle his brain as he processed what that meant. "I'm not doing it; I'm not giving myself up for it, not now. I've got too much to lose." He spared a glance at the rest of the room; Alfred was nowhere to be seen, though there was warmth on his wrists, on his temples, fingers that weren't his own in his hair and on his back. "I'm not doing it, I'm not, I'm not, _I'm not_."

"Jesus," Gilbert whistled. "They said that you'd totally lost it since I died, but I wasn't expecting you to be this bad. You've lost weight and sleep and your marbles too, haven't you?"

"Get out," Arthur demanded. "Just, get out and stay out. I don't want this, I don't need it. I just want you all _gone_!"

And just like that, it was daylight, mid-morning, and he was sat in his armchair by the window, curled into a ball and tearing at his hair, and Alfred was holding his wrists, trying to open him up and get through the barriers to calm him down.

Arthur Kirkland was thirty years old, weighed eight stone to his five feet seven, and was steadily losing his mind.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

**Story title** is a song by Billy Talent.

**Chapter title** comes from David Gray's song _Falling Free._

I know most people use '**Fredrick' as Alfred's middle name**, but I thought AlFRED FREDrick was a bit weird, especially since I nickname him Freddie most of the time. So I did a little recon on the web. Franklin is an English name, derived from the Middle English for 'freeman'. There is a definition of freeman devoted purely to Colonial America, in which a man is not tied to the legal system after escaping from slavery. I thought it appropriate, considering how America viewed English rule.

As a hereditary **migraine sufferer**, fuck yes this is what it's like. My grandma used to have to spend days in bed in pitch black, because painkillers don't touch it. I'm almost that bad, except I'm on full-strength prescription cocodamol for it and I couldn't lie in silence if it killed me. The only reason I haven't keeled over is 'cause I tank myself up on painkillers before it hits. Doesn't always work, and it's probably not a good idea, but who cares, it stops me passing out. BUT ANYWAY.

As to **Arthur's weight**, look at a BMI chart. He's actually beyond 'underweight'. He was verging on underweight during LSN.

**Well, boo, this chapter's boring as hell. And it's **_**supposed**_** to jump around, just so you don't go 'I don't get it'. Which you probably will anyway, since you know, nothing's really making sense at the moment. Damn you, HetaOni.**

**Hope you enjoyed, my lovelies, and I shall see you next chapter! ++Vince++**


	2. Leaking Life Faster

**For this Chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **USUK, FrUK bromance, mentions of Japan, Sealand, Belgium, the Netherlands and the Italies. Oh, and Salem.

**Rating: **K+

**Warnings:** _Angst_: it's USUK. _Fluff_: a fair bit of it. _Slash_: a _lot_ of it. _Language_: everything bar fuck._ Mind-fuckery:_ mild in comparison to what it's going to get like later on, but still heavy in comparison to the rest of my work.

**Chapter Summary: **After every night, there is a morning, and after every rise, there is a fall.

**A/N: ** ONWARDS. Notes at the end! Enjoy my lovelies!

**Chapter Two: Leaking Life Faster than I'm Leaking Blood [David Gray: **_**The One I Love]**_

"Are you going to be alright?"

"For the fifth time, Alfred – for God's sake, Salem, go downstairs! – I'll be _fine_. Have you managed to button your shirt properly this time?"

"Yes, _mom_, sheesh. Want to brush my hair too?"

"Don't tempt me; it looks a mess."

"You're the one who kissed me first."

"Oh, shut your face. Come here, your tie's wonky."

It wasn't, but Alfred didn't need to know that. Besides, they both knew it was just a ploy for Arthur to steal a kiss, and Alfred had him backed against the wall a few seconds later anyway, so it wasn't like it mattered. Seven years they'd been together, even counting the year Arthur had spent in convict orange, their only interactions public with a pane of glass between them, and still they couldn't keep their hands off each other. Francis was forever spewing bile about being 'forever young' and Arthur was always punching him and lodging unheard formal complaints with the Academy about their new special-needs tutor.

He did, however reluctantly Arthur might admit it, have a point. It wasn't to say Arthur agreed with him, because he didn't, under any circumstances – half the time he refuted the points just to be an utter arse about it – but there was something in what he said. Unsure though Arthur was about it, because really, _why_, it wasn't like they were teenagers any more, and it wasn't like they didn't have all the time in the world, they used every moment together.

Part of him wondered if it was because they were so closely tied now; what with Alfred's heart beating the same drum as Arthur's, and what with Alfred's life only continuing because Arthur had thought to close him off before the demon was paid off. But no, it was more than that, and less than that. There was denying that Arthur loved the younger with every fibre of his being, had since the day his Aunt had introduced them, and maybe it was as simple as that. As simple as their being in love, because wasn't love eternal and without boundaries? Didn't Eros himself care not for propriety in the face of his love?

It had taken the better part of a decade, but Arthur had him now, had Eros trapped in a cage in his heart and only Alfred had the key to it, had taken Eros as his own.

"Make sure you have a proper soak in the bath today," Alfred hummed, nose buried behind Arthur's ear, breath warm against his jaw.

Arthur made a noise in the back of his throat; disbelief, maybe, or just exasperation. "I'm not a _woman_, Al, what would I do that for?"

Alfred chuckled, pressed in closer, hands a warm pressure against his hips. "It relaxes you, like, major relaxes you. You keep falling asleep in the bath, you know. Have to put you in bed before you go all wrinkly and cold." When Arthur made another noise – angrier, this time, and even a little confused – Alfred chuckled some more and squeezed his hands, fingertips pressing on the bones of his pelvis. "Just do it, babe. Don't forget," he added, finally pulling himself away despite Arthur's lingering touch to his shoulders. "We've got that gig with Francis and the Vargas crew tonight, for the birthday you _completely missed_ yesterday."

Arthur snorted in amusement, still leant against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He could feel his ribs beneath his fingers and made a note to check his chest measurement. "What if I don't want to go out with Francis? What if I don't want to spend four hours sat with people who hate me and only tolerate me because they're utterly besotted with you?"

For a moment, Alfred was silent, popping the cabinet above the sink to rifle through the mess of bottles and cans to find the body spray he was after and step back onto the landing to spray it. Then, he said, "Well, what do you suggest instead? We stay here and have sex on the kitchen table?"

It made Arthur chuckle. "Well," he hummed as Alfred threw the can back into the cabinet. "If you're offering." He left it hanging, just to see Alfred throw his head back and laugh, cross back to him to steal another kiss.

"I love you, you know," he whispered against his lips, one hand cupping the older man's jaw, fingers curling around the back of his neck and thumb on his cheek.

"I know," Arthur replied, smiling into the kiss. "It was always you." His smile lingered on Alfred's lips as the other pulled away again and gave his appearance one last check in the mirror.

"Do I look alright?" he asked.

"You look fine," Arthur assured. "I don't know what you're stressing about; it's only Kiku's people."

"Exactly," Alfred whined. "I don't know shit about them, other than they like _Transformers_. What if they don't like me?"

"Alfred," Arthur began, going to him and putting his hands on his face, and they both pretended they couldn't feel the shakes. He had his reasonable voice on, a serious expression on his face that held an edge of softness that Alfred had only ever seen when they were alone, wrapped in the sanctity of the house, and Arthur was feeling… better. Not good, but better. "You'll be _fine_. They love you; they've followed _Clairvoyance_ since you first got whatsit-comics to publish it. If you accidentally offend them, Kiku's got your back, and I'll punch them in the teeth if they start on you."

Alfred laughed a little. "You sure?"

"I'm sure. They wouldn't have asked for the meeting to turn it into a cartoon if they didn't think it was a good idea. You'll be _fine_."

"You should be coming too," Alfred told him. "I mean, there wouldn't be a comic without you writing the story – hell, it wouldn't exist if I didn't know you!"

Arthur smiled. "You know I can't go into company buildings, love. Not with the energy there. Oi," he added. "Don't let them get an American in to do my voice, will you? I didn't deliberately make my speech pattern ridiculously English in order to be voiced by someone doing an impression of Dick Van Dyke."

"Promise, babe," Alfred replied, glib and too-innocent. Arthur decided to let it slide, because Kiku _would_ call him to make sure he approved before agreeing to casting anyone. He glanced at his watch. "Shit, I'd better get my groove on."

Arthur laughed and shoved him towards the door, then continued to laugh as he followed him down the stairs. "Go on, you bloody fool. God, I hope you don't start dancing in the meeting room. Actually, where's your iPod, I'm having it."

Heaving the sort of sigh Arthur imagined Alfred might have heaved whilst at the Academy had he been so foolish as to get the damn thing confiscated, he dug deep into his trouser pocket and slapped the Touch into his waiting palm, safely ensconced in the Stars-and-Stripes sock he'd bullied (asked nicely) Arthur to make for him after he dropped it for the hundredth time after tripping over Salem for the hundredth time. Giving the taller man a smug little smile, Arthur gave his thanks and promptly headed to the kitchen.

Alfred, of course, followed him, about to run late or not.

"Hey, what are you going to do today, anyway? Besides have that bath?"

"I'm not having a bath, Alfred, I just had a shower, Christ." Arthur frowned for a moment. "I don't know. I might go to _The Leaning Tower_, or go sit in on one of Pete's lectures and make a nuisance of myself. If I still drove I might have gone to the Church."

Alfred, perched on the edge of the table, hummed contentedly. "We could do that instead," he suggested. "Instead of going out tonight, we could go out to the wheat fields."

"And do what?" Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow at his lover as he set about making a cup of tea. "Have sex there?"

"If you're offering," Alfred quipped, grinning like a fool. "I was thinking of just lying on a picnic blanket actually, and just star gazing. Like we used to."

Arthur waved a hand at him, laughing, but his expression was fond and utterly loving. "Go on, you fool, go before you're too late to be fashionable."

Alfred gave him a noisy, overdramatic kiss, complete with childish sound-effects, and bolted out the door. Arthur shook his head, smiled fondly, and crouched to pet the cat as she slunk her way across the kitchen to greet him properly now the American was out the way.

"What am I going to do with him?" he asked her, though she clearly didn't care, just rolling onto her back to get a decent scratch to her belly. "You don't give a shit, do you?"

Salem's expression couldn't have said 'no' better than if she could speak.

* * *

><p>Francis showed up at lunchtime, walking through the front door as though he owned the cottage, and Arthur ignored him. Sprawled out prone on the couch with a battered copy of <em>Hound of the Baskervilles<em> with Salem tucked into the niche between his knees, he'd been there for the remainder of the morning, idling his time and nit-picking the music Alfred had decided he wanted to have on his iPod. He wouldn't mind so much, but they're all his favourite songs.

The first words out of Francis' mouth were; "Your hair needs a cut."

The first words out of Arthur's were; "Not on your life."

Ten minutes later, Arthur's sat on one of the kitchen chairs, a towel around his shoulders, the radio on, eyes closed as he allows the _it was dark and I was over, until you kissed my lips and you saved me_ to work its way through his veins, across his skin to pull itself free of his throat. He was vaguely aware of Francis humming along, but for the most part, they were silent. Occasionally, Francis had to halt his movements to clamp his hands down on Arthur's shoulders.

"Keep still," he said every time. "Do you want to have a lopsided cut?"

Arthur snorted in amusement. "What do I care?" he asked. "I didn't even ask for this."

"No," Francis agreed. "But it doesn't stop you from liking the attention."

"I like nothing of the sort," Arthur said, turning his nose up.

For a long moment, they were silent; the only sound the faint music in the background and the gentle echo of Francis' scissors in Arthur's hair.

"How do you feel?" Francis asked after the silence had settled past comfortable, and into brotherly.

"What do you mean?"

Arthur had not been lulled into a pleasant quiet, a moment between here and there that was the sort of quiet he'd only found when Alfred had forced his way past his defences to clear out the mess the Ghosts left behind. Alfred was, despite his own localised noise, the only source of quiet in Arthur's life these days, the moments of blessed silence, of the tiniest gasps and brilliant smiles that made all the noise bearable, just to hear the '_I love you_' whispered into his skin as his world swam and stars gathered at the back of his eyes. Of course he hadn't been lulled into that quiet by _Francis_ giving him a _haircut_. Of course not, that was ridiculous.

"I mean; Alfred told me of your… how are we phrasing it now? Your attack? Well, whatever you want to call it, you did your thing yesterday. He's worried about you."

"He's always worried about me."

The landline telephone rang, and for three rings, they stared at it.

"Ignore it," Arthur said when it continued to ring. "We don't answer it anymore if it rings for longer than three rings."

"Why not?" Francis did as told and returned to evening up the hair by Arthur's ear.

Arthur shrugged a little. "We keep getting calls from automated companies for one thing, and Ghosts are constantly pranking the line. And then there's these… people. I don't know who they are; I've never spoken to them. Alfred says not to worry, but you know what he's like, he's probably got into some trouble or something."

There was something Arthur didn't like in Francis' voice when he said, "No, Alfred's right. It's probably nothing to worry about; probably just a persistent company trying to get a sale."

Arthur frowned a little. "If you say so."

"Which I do. Now tell me; how do you feel?"

"I'm fine," Arthur assured him. Francis paused pointedly, and Arthur sighed. "Alright, I'm not fine. I'm anything _but_ fine. But it's not like there's anything I can do. Painkillers aren't touching it." He took a breath, picked at a stray thread on a button of his cardigan and mumbled, "The only thing that keeps my head quiet is Alfred."

"Because of the 'connection', right?"

_Snip, snip, snip_. The noise was getting louder, echoing across his skull, as if his head was protesting being spoken about in such a manner. He nodded; an abortive little motion.

"Yes. I assume so, anyway. It's not like there's a manual for this. I don't know what happened. I didn't give his soul any reason or opportunity to latch onto mine. I know that when his brother died he died a little himself, but… Christ, I don't know."

Francis finally – _finally_ – set the scissors down and moved to crouch in front of where Arthur sat wringing his hands. He rested his hands first on Arthur's knees, and then caught his hands, pulling them apart and lacing their fingers together. Arthur couldn't help but revel in the softness, the length of those fingers, the strength in them, the very _warmth_. It seared across his skin, warmed his aching bones, and yet, it was cold, distant.

"Oh, no you don't," Francis warned. "Don't you dare, I have to get back to work in ten minutes."

But Arthur's eyes had shifted out of focus, latching onto the sunlight in the window, the way the warm stone walls bleached white, the way the Ghost of a young girl wandered through one wall and out through another, waving to him a little, smiling, but not recognising him. He smiled back, a shaky little smile. He could hear Francis talking – shouting, even – but didn't hear the words, didn't care to hear them. He was too interested in the noise coming from his back garden; a battle, perhaps, or just a pub brawl; they'd been known to happen from time to time.

Francis was clinging to his hands, trying to keep him seated and grounded in the real world, but Arthur had already torn himself free, gotten to his feet and wandered to the French doors leading out onto the decking. Ghosts were fighting, that much was obvious.

The frog behind him was cursing in French, cursing him and his mother and his cat, and he just laughed, his head swimming, bile rising in his throat even as he set his palms to the glass and watched the dead kill each other with the morbid fascination of one watching a train wreck.

Something was pressed to his ear, and he flinched away from it, but Francis had his head pinned, warm palm over his other ear, holding him still even as that blessed silence washed over him, the static fading as it twisted its way around Alfred's voice, the colour began creeping back into his garden, his grass turning green, the oak tree growing tall and proud, the half-a-decade old football with its peeling leather and its mud, the roses and the foxgloves and the buddleia all coming back in a riot of colour.

"_Artie? Artie, are you there? Come on, talk to me."_

"Alfred." It was barely a breath, and Arthur didn't remember even saying it.

"_Arthur_," Alfred breathed back, sounding relieved, the tiniest of gasps and the most brilliant of smiles cording along his words. "_Thank God_. _Artie, forget going out tonight. We'll go to the wheat fields, we'll take cucumber sandwiches and a thermos of tea and that blanket on the couch and we'll go to the furthest edge of the furthest field and we'll lie in the fields of gold, Artie, and we'll look at the stars. It'll just be us; me and you and the stars. No one to tell us what to do, no one to see us, no one to hear us. We'll be there until the morning, just us. Nobody else. Artie, I love you so much, Artie, you know that, right? So we'll go. We'll just get up and we'll go and the things you could do to me, Artie, and I wouldn't care, you could do whatever you liked and I'd let you, so long as we're in those fields, so long as it's just you and me and the silence in your head."_

Arthur's eyes slipped shut, a soft, long sigh leaving him, his head silent except for Alfred's voice, the words rushing over him, settling deep in his gut and even deeper into his heart.

"_You okay now, sweetheart_?"

Another slow breath and as much of a nod as Francis's grip on him would allow. He coughed a little, and said, "Yeah… Yes, I'm okay. I'm good. I… I like the sound of that. Just us. And the silence."

"_Just us and the silence_," Alfred agreed, and there was an audible smile in his voice. "_Now, get in the bath, you. It's a long ride out to the fields, and I want you relaxed. 'Ere, put Francis back on, would you_?"

"He wants to talk to you, Frog," Arthur grumbled, pulling himself free of Francis' hands.

"What is it?" Francis asked when he'd put the phone back to his ear. He frowned a little, but nodded. "Alright," he said after a second. "I'll have to call in a favour, but yes, I can do that." Another second. "It's getting worse."

He was silent for longer this time, and Arthur lingered at the doorway to watch him pace.

"I don't know. It's as though there's no need for a trigger any more. It's as though – I don't know – it's like his own thoughts are setting him off. I was cutting his hair, and we were talking, and then I took his hands, and _that's_ what set him off. Just physical contact." He paused again. "That can't be healthy. Alright, I'll talk to Marie and Lars, see what they can get their hands on." A flash of anger crossed his face, and Arthur flinched at the strength of it. "I know you don't like it, but what choice do we have? By your own admission, this isn't something we can go to a doctor with! It's only Romulus Vargas' money that's keeping him out of the asy – mental hospital – as it is. If he goes to professionals, they'll ask questions we can't answer with dirty money."

What? Arthur wasn't a stranger to St. Hetalia, he knew the Vargas family was mafia at its finest (or was it lowest? It was hard to tell when dealing with criminals.) but that didn't explain – he knew Romulus Vargas had bought off his prison sentence, lowered it to something that wouldn't completely ruin his life, changed the charge, acquitted him of murder with a simple bribe – but were they really buying everybody else off as well? Were they keeping him safe by using _crime_?

Did they think he wouldn't know? Francis was looking at him as he spoke, so clearly he either assumed Arthur already knew, or didn't care. It wasn't as if it was a secret, Arthur supposed, watching the Frenchman frown and speak lowly, rubbing at a temple as though it hurt. They'd just never brought it up; hell, Arthur hadn't asked.

_But still_…

"Alright," Francis sighed eventually. "Alright, I'll stay with him until you get back. You owe me big time for this, Jones." With an exasperated sigh, he hung up and shoved the mobile into his back pocket. He pointed a finger at Arthur. "You," he said, his tone brooking no nonsense. Arthur supposed it was what a big brother might sound like. "Upstairs. I've got express orders to get you in the bath."

"I've had a shower," Arthur grumbled, but allowed Francis to manhandle him in the direction of the stairs all the same.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

I have a thing for **teacher!Francis**, leave me alone. I blame _General Relativity_ really.

Have I been **reading Wilfred Owen's poem**_** To Eros**_? Yes, I have. Go read it, it's one of three of his poems that I can actually stand. I hate poetry as a rule. (The other two, incidentally, are _The Last Laugh_ and _Mental Cases_. I used those three for my English A-Level transformation coursework piece – I chose Tom Stoppard's _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead_ and those three poems, and _guess who got full marks_. Do you care? No, but I thought I'd tell you anyway.)

There's a lot of** kissing going on today, isn't there?** OH WELL.

Oh, Arthur, you have **no idea about American comic books do you**? I deliberately left which company had taken it up, but I'm thinking either DC/Dark Horse/Marvel. One of the big ones. Because I can. I'm not sure if it'd be DC, since they've got _Hellblazer_.

**Dick Van Dyke** in _Mary Poppins _is the most offensive thing I've ever heard. We _don't_ sound like that. Ever.

Arthur, the **most technophobic man in the history of ever**. I swear the only reason he has a TV is because Alfred bugged him until he got one. I'd quite happily do without a TV if I didn't need one for my DVDs. I don't ever watch any shows – those I do are on the internet since they're _Canadian_ and _American_, and I don't have the channels. Not that my TV works anyway, whatever.

**THAT CAT.**

I know I said **cornfields** in LSN, but really, listen to Eva Cassidy's_ Fields of Gold_. The image I have in my head. Oh God it's so beautiful and so _them_, I just can't get rid of it.

God boys, you're so **romantic**. SARCASM. Speaking of romanticism; one of England's character notes, as I remember it, says that he's a romantic, and Jesus Christ have I just proved it to myself. My brain's melted itself through over exposure to some of the most beautiful poetry I've ever read in my life and I don't even _like_ poetry. Screw you, Shakespeare. /rant.

I've been to **Baskerville Hall**, where _Hound of the Baskervilles_ is set. I tell you what, if you've ever played the first _Resident Evil _game, or the mansion level of 5, the foyer of that mansion looks like a shrunken version of the Spencer Mansion foyer.

A lot of people, I've noticed, **write England as being a punk rocker**, and I know it's more canon to his character, but I see him as being a bit more mellow in his music tastes, more eclectic (and totally not like me at all *looks at the Lady GaGa next to Rammstein and Beethoven in her playlist*) and more likely to listen to _Savage Garden_ than he is _The Sex Pistols_. I just can't see it. For the record, he's listening to Adèle's _Set Fire to the Rain_. My mates hate this song, but I think it's a) beautiful, and b) fitting to USUK.

**Cucumber sandwiches** are the most amazing things in the history of ever I swear. No, really, they are amazing. I always have cucumber sandwiches when we go anywhere. It's so **British**, of course Alfred would suggest it.

What's this, Arthur? **Getting a taste of your own medicine with the secret-keeping?** Why, yes you are.

OH ALFRED. Inspiration is; **Eva Cassidy's version of**_** Fields of Gold**_**. **I think I've mentioned it somewhere above, but OH, I LOVE IT SO MUCH.

**This is what happens when you don't have a distinct plan set up in your head – oh I know where the story's going and I know what the endgame is, but as for the in-betweens and the chapter plans? Not a clue, so expect lots of chapters like this; i.e. in which not a lot happens. Even so, I hope you enjoyed, my lovelies! ++Vince++**


	3. Dream of the Ones who came Before

**For this Chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **Britain(/America), Romano, Italy Veneciano(/Germany because who else is it going to be?), Rome, mentions of France and Prussia

**Rating: **K+

**Warnings:** _Angst_: it's USUK. _Language_: Arthur's got a potty mouth on him whenever I write him._ Slash:_ not as 'DUDE SLASH'y as previous chapters, but it's there. _Talk of death and lunatics_.

**Chapter Summary: **In which Arthur tries to understand and fails to comprehend.

**A/N: ** I was fiddling around with my style of writing recently, so it might not read like the rest of my crap. This is another chapter where not a lot happens. ONWARDS. Notes at the end! Enjoy my lovelies!

**Chapter Three: Dream of the Ones who came Before (Annie Lennox, **_**Into the West)**_

The Otherworld was one of those things. It was a constant, a declarative in a world of questions. It simply was, it was there, it was always there, the echo of seconds, the dust curling in the rays of the sun, the aftermath of a sob caught in a kiss.

"Arthur! How do you feel?"

It just was, and what more was there than just being?

"I'm good, thank you for asking."

It existed a split-second out of time with the rest of the world, or so Arthur had come to understand. It was the sense of déjà vu gained when repeating an action that hadn't been done before. It was the reflection and the shadow that had no body, the orbs on a photograph, the smile with no face, the emotions with no names.

"I didn't expect to see you today; Alfred said you were really tired after your birthday."

The Otherworld had been part of his head for twenty-two years, and there was no getting rid of it. Not without ceasing all other things inside his head, anyway, and honestly, he was in no mood to rid himself of the madness that had come with living with Alfred. But love was divine in its madness, so it was a madness he bared with a smile on his face, knowing he was not alone.

"He would. I'm fine, don't worry. I've actually been called in to the Academy to help the new Dean out."

Endless whiteness was iconic of the Otherworld; no colour but shades of white; if he was lucky, he got cream rather than grey. But those days, those shades, they were rare, and he had grown accustomed to the white-washed walls and furnishings of a world in which the living were the dead and the dead just _were_. They were not living; even in their own world, the Ghosts were merely that; remnants of a life lived and lost and forgotten. They were solid, at moments of lucidity, incorporeal at moments of madness, but always visible, always tangible.

"You should have been Dean. You were the best Student Council President we had. I was terrified of crossing you, of course, you might have cut the art budget and then the department would never have forgiven me for it, but you were always there to sort our problems out."

The streets always had Ghosts walking familiar routes; to work, to school, marching to their deaths as they fought to defend their lands from the enemy they had yet to encounter. Always the same steps, the same people, the same last moments, a record stuck on its stylus, the same notes skipping and repeating, echoing around his skull and drowning out anything that might be said in a crackle of static. But Arthur had lived with the Ghosts all his life, and so they left well enough alone, on the whole. Some didn't take kindly to his presence, of course, but such was the way.

"Part of me wishes I'd stayed on – not to become Dean, but to just continue my education. But shit happens, so I don't regret it, not really. I can't think what they want me for."

It hurt, sometimes, when they forced their way through his mental barriers to take control, to feel a life denied them. But it wasn't their life to live and it always ended with their consciousness being torn from his body and disintegrated, destroyed, death beyond death.

"Well, I'm sure it's nothing too serious. Tea?"

Some of the Ghosts thought to impart knowledge on him, knowledge that helped him cope with the noise in his head, knowledge that helped him skirt authority to help the Ghosts as they sought to help him. It was a quiet little arrangement they had, but it was an effective one, and had worked for the entirety of his time as a clairvoyant.

"Please."

Of course, knowledge came at a price, and the price tag hung from Arthur's sanity. He was slipping, he could feel it, the ground loose beneath his feet, sometimes not there at all, and he wondered whether the stories were true. Alfred had hinted at knowing the stories himself, though how he'd found them was beyond him; it wasn't exactly public knowledge that eventually, every true clairvoyant took their own life. Whether deliberate or accidental, Arthur had made his peace. One day, he would end his own life, if just to end the noise in his head. Perhaps Gilbert was right about the Gateway, and perhaps it did need to be closed, and perhaps Arthur would have to give himself to end it. But that would take Alfred's life as well, and could he bring himself to do that?

"It's on the house. I'll go make it; two sugars, right?"

It was only after Feliciano Vargas had let go of his arms that Arthur realised the Italian had been holding them. He could feel the warmth of his skin, the calluses on his palms and the rough pads of his fingertips lingering on his forearms, at the crease of his elbow, still see the echo of worry in those brown eyes, but he shook the thought away and crossed to his usual table. It was a table he'd sat at for the twenty-five years he'd lived in Saint Hetalia, a table at which many people had joined him, a table which had seen a lot of homework and held hands and brushed feet, a table at which Arthur had sat and looked out of the glass front of the café and watched the world move on without him.

Because it did. It was a small place, quiet and warm and it always had its doors open to him, and he walked through those doors with the knowledge that the entirety of the building was quiet. Even with the arguments – of which there were plenty, staff and customers alike, and not two weeks ago, hadn't Arthur himself torn Alfred's throat out over something completely asinine and pointless and without grounds for no reason other than he could? – it was quiet, a reprieve from a world in which Arthur didn't fit. Oh, he had his corners and his niches and his reasons, but he didn't fit out there, with the big wide world. The little cottage at the edge of town with its dark woods and its spiders and the big, old oak tree blocking most of light from his bedroom, that was the only place he belonged, that was the only place to call home.

The tea was set in front of him, and as the steam curled from the heavy mug, he looked up to thank Feliciano, only to see someone he didn't expect.

"Why is it," he mused, as he gestured for the other to take a seat. "That people I'm convinced are _dead_ keep coming back to haunt me?"

To which Romulus Vargas laughed. He looked a lot older than his years, his temples greying and his face lined with an age that had sprung up on him seemingly overnight. He'd been ill, so Arthur had been told, some illness of other. With the stiff way his elder moved, Arthur thought he might have been shot. His hands shook a little as he set his own mug on the table and sat in the chair opposite his younger.

"You're thirty now, aren't you?" he asked, and there was nothing old about the grin on his face.

"I am," Arthur replied, trying to ignore how he had to be half Romulus' age at least, and yet his hands were trembling as if he had a palsy rivalling Romulus' own. He chewed his lip for a second. "Where have you been? I haven't seen you for months – hell, _years_."

"Thirty's a good age to be," Romulus mused absently, frowning over Arthur's shoulder, "Old enough to know better, young enough not to care."

"Rome," Arthur said abruptly, cutting the other's reminiscing of times gone by off at the head. "You've made a deal with Alfred, haven't you?"

"Maybe, maybe not. It's not your business."

"Bullshit is it. The phone calls to my landline. They're terrifying Alfred – they're terrifying Francis – and you know something. I want to know what."

Romulus' eyes slid over to him. "What would you do with the knowledge, Mister Kirkland?" he asked, something like mockery in his voice. "What would you do knowing what I and my grandsons know? What would you do if you had knowledge straight from Eden itself?"

"Don't play games with me, Romulus," Arthur snapped. "I'm not a fool, and I'm not scared of you or your family's business. It will take more than religious mumblings to scare me into silence."

"They want your head," he said. The other side of the room, Lovino's voice snapped, _Grandfather, don't!_ but Romulus carried on with an amendment of, "Well, more precisely, they want what is inside it."

"A cult?"

"Perhaps. I was unable to identify them fully." He sat back in his chair. "Feliciano?"

The boy appeared, his eyes wide and a lip caught between his teeth. His hands fluttered for a second, touching at his grandfather's temple, at his neck and shoulder and straightening the lines of his shirt's collar. "What is it?" His hands were trembling as well, Arthur noted, and revelled in the contrast of the warm olive skin and the crisp white of the cotton.

"The icon, can you draw it for Arthur?"

"Yes, let me just – I'll be right back."

When he'd vanished beyond the counter, Romulus sighed. "I wish he would put his mind to a more practical use. There is a genius in there somewhere, between the pictures and the food and the love."

"He does well with it all the same," Arthur shrugged, and took a sip of his tea. Feliciano made good tea, he decided, and resolved to send Alfred his way that he might learn it too. "Why do you suppose I might be able to identify them?"

"Because they may already be in that pretty little head of yours, and if they are, you have a head start on them – ha-ha, no pun intended. I promised Gilbert that I would care for you as my own, and I always keep my word."

"You've done a great job so far," Arthur replied, and sarcasm became warmth somewhere between his brain and his teeth, because the Roman had, hadn't he? He'd kept Arthur alive, whether by direct contact, or his own dealings with others, he'd kept the dangers localised to Arthur's own head, and that was more than Arthur could have asked for, if he'd thought to seek help for dangers he really ought to have known existed. He'd kept Arthur out of prison for manslaughter, for murder, kept him safe inside from the outside, got him on parole earlier than what Arthur thought to be legal, and why hadn't Arthur thought anything of it at the time?

Romulus snorted with laughter, and took a dignified sip of his own drink. "Sometimes I wonder why Gilbert liked you so much, and I wonder why Francis too cares for you more than he will ever say. I certainly question how Alfred came to love you as much as he does, but then I look at your eyes, and I look at your smile, and I think I understand why."

"I don't understand." If there had been a smile on his face, it was gone in place of a frown.

"I'm dying," Romulus said. "Burning from the inside out, so they say. I have less than a year left, I think, and my boys are going to pick up where I left off, and I have to wonder why you're the centre of this world, why everything has to include you, whether you mean it to or not. And I think I understand why. You are of the earth herself, Arthur, and that is why."

"I never thought I'd hear something so heathen come from your mouth."

"I'm too old to care," Romulus dismissed. "I have been around for far too long to care about what religion really means. But you, Arthur, the boys will do all they can to honour my family's promise to Gilbert, and they will protect you until the day you die, but our deal with Alfred is something to which you cannot be privy."

Arthur was silent for a minute, trying to decipher the message he was sure lay hidden under Romulus' words, but his musing was interrupted by Feliciano's reappearance, this time with his brother at his side. Lovino was an angry sort, all scowls and hisses where Feliciano was wide grins and laughs, and Arthur didn't doubt for a second that he was prepared to kill someone with the towel slung over his shoulder.

"Is this right?" Feliciano asked, putting a ring-bound notebook on the table and turning it so Romulus could see.

"That's right, yes. Arthur, if you would."

Feliciano spun it to face Arthur, who frowned at it.

"A circle in a square, in a triangle, in another circle?" he asked, tracing the pattern.

A static shock jolted his arm and he whipped his hand away from it.

"It's alchemy," he told them, rubbing his knuckles and frowning. "It's called 'squaring the circle'; it's used in the creation of the Philosopher's stone. But it's utter lunacy – there's no such thing, regardless of what alchemy really exists, it isn't possible to create eternal life, nor turn lead to gold. They're insane," he concluded, finally looking up into the confused and sceptical faces frowning back. "Whoever these people are, they're insane."

"But they know about you," Romulus told him calmly, taking another sip. "And they know what lurks in the depths of your mind. That alone speaks volumes for them, don't you think?"

"You think they're scientists?"

"I think they are a force to be reckoned with, and I cannot be sure they are entirely human. If you'll excuse me."

The world washed white for a second, and the Ghosts laughed delightedly as Romulus disappeared into the back room behind the counter, Lovino following instantly. Feliciano lingered for a moment, seemingly on the verge of saying something, and then followed his brother and grandfather.

_Go to the Church of your fathers. Remember the loose flagstone there? By the door? The one we used to hide letters under? Put a ward on it, hide it under the stone, make it your safe place. Call them to you, Arthur, but keep from becoming what they are._

It was his own voice whispering on the shell of his ear, and he sat there long after his tea had gone cold and the world narrowed to a single warm terracotta tile some twelve feet away, trying to work out what he'd meant by that.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

I think with **Arthur tearing Alfred's throat out**, I was going for a 'going for the jugular' sort of thing. Christ only knows. Guys? Are any of you offended by how much I blaspheme? For a Brit, my repertoire of cursing is surprisingly small, especially considering I can swear in fourteen languages.

**Rome's pushing sixty**. He and his son were young parents, what can I say? I love Rome. Also side-note; the **Mafia is really interesting** – I was given a book about it, like, three years ago, and I've only just got around to reading it.

The **philosopher's stone** was originally used in turning lead into gold, but later became associated with an elixir of life – it was used, originally, to rejuvenate, but the hunt for it soon became a hunt for the secret of eternal life. Alchemists are mad bastards – so's Voldemort, but that's neither here nor there, really. Info on the P.S. taken from Wikipedia, FYI, because I'm too lazy to go and find a book about it – I'm sure there's one somewhere in my house. I've got the book on Angelology and all the astrology books, and my mum's got all the books on Celtic mythology, but can I find the one on Alchemy? No. My brother's probably got it; he's got a book about hunting trolls. I was looking for an icon to use for the 'cult', and I happened across that one, so I read up on it. /rant

**Well, that's that! I hope you've enjoyed, my lovelies, and it's about to get darker now there's a new plotline for me to play with! ++Vince++**


	4. I'm Not Your Ghost

**For this Chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **USUK, France, Spain, mentioned: PruCan, Scotland, Sealand, Vargas family

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** _Angst_. _Language_: I'm cursing in my notes today, it seems, and the boys are fond of the word 'shit'. _Slash:_ Do I need to keep putting this one here? Uh, also? If you haven't read _Life Starts Now_, you might want to before you go any further, because there are major spoilers for it in this chapter. There were last chapter as well, but this has the big spoilers in it.

**Chapter Summary: **The cracks begin to appear, and silence is lost.

**A/N: ** OH MY GOD GUYS, I GOT INTO UNIVERSITY. ONWARDS. Notes at the end! Enjoy my lovelies!

**Chapter Four: I'm Not Your Ghost (Christina Perri,**_** Jar of Hearts)**_

At first, it was silent, and Arthur lay there, thinking to himself, that maybe, just maybe, it'd be a good day. Maybe he could actually get some work done, plot out the next issue of _Clairvoyance_ and watch the curve of Alfred's back as he stretched out muscles cramped from endless drawing. Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. It was a foolish hope, really.

Beside him, Alfred stirred in his sleep, reacting to the thoughts bouncing off the walls of Arthur's skull, but not yet waking. A hitch of his breath – a pause in Arthur's – had him falling back into sleep.

Hauling himself from their bed, Arthur touched Alfred's hair lightly, combed his fingers through it, rested on his neck and felt the throb of Alfred's pulse under his fingertips, matching the steady drumbeat of his own, trailed down the exposed arm, smiled a little when the fingers twitched, and turned away. Salem, curled into a ball of black fluff at the foot of the bed, blinked open one bright eye at his movement. Her tail twitched when Arthur made a staying motion with his hand, but she too went back to sleep, stretching a little and filling the space his foot had vacated.

The glass panes of the window were cold and fogged, even in the stale heat of encroaching summer as Arthur rested his shoulder and temple against them, arms folded as he looked out over the mists on the cobblestones of the street, on the moon hanging low and full in the night sky. Somewhere, the other side of town, Francis was calling for last orders, telling the younger drinkers to get back to their own homes and their own beds lest he call their mothers – and he would, Saint Hetalia was small enough for that – and the other side of the woods, the Gateway lingered.

Oh, the Asylum had been pulled down, of course, after Arthur had called in about Gilbert's body, and they'd found countless others in there, locked in cupboards, and buried in the floors and walls, rotting under refuge. It made sense, though, Arthur supposed with a sigh, because Matthew had not by any means been the only one to find the demon that lurked there with its jaws wide open, waiting to snag itself another innocent. It was safer for it to be pulled down, they said.

It was going to be dead ground, they said. Nothing was going to be built over the remains, the superstitious bastards that they were. Arthur had to ask himself – and indeed, the people who ran the place – why it hadn't been pulled down when it was closed, but rumour was that they'd planned to turn it into a block of flats.

Great idea, that. Everyone would have been dead within a week.

"Fools," Arthur sighed under his breath, barely speaking over the exhale, and watched the mists some more.

It was going to rain, somewhere between lunchtime and three, maybe a little later than that. The storm had been threatening for days, lingering on the edge of town, but never actually arriving and giving Arthur's garden the watering it was in desperate need of. The roses were suffering, of course, and the ground was bone dry, odd for this time of year. Not that it really mattered if it rained, Arthur had a hosepipe, and he'd done the week's washing already, so it wasn't likely to impact on him either way.

He sighed again, rolled his shoulders against the chill crawling up his spine, and slid his gaze from the street to the woods lurking at the edge of town.

People had died in there, that he knew. Gilbert had died in there, not that he'd realised it at the time, of course, blissful in his ignorance as he was, wrapped up in everything that Matthew was, and Matthew – Matthew had died in the lake, he'd been raped and stabbed and thrown in there like a broken doll. How the boy had kept his head Arthur didn't know, because they all knew what the results of the blood analysis on that knife had been, they all knew what it meant, what the demon had done.

And yet Matthew still loved the East German, still sought him out and clung to him, used him as a springboard into the afterlife, and Arthur envied him, a little, but couldn't begrudge him for it. The boy had died, what did he expect? Life wasn't all sunshine and roses, and neither was death. To be murdered by the one person in the world you loved, to have them not realise it, not know it even after death…

Salem stirred, stretched and arched her back and clawed Alfred's uncovered ankle for a moment before leaping off the bed and pawing at Arthur's foot. Obligingly, he crouched, and she leapt up onto his shoulders, purring in his ear, the vibrations running the length of her body, down his neck and spine.

"What am I going to do?" he whispered, reaching up to run his fingers over the curve of her ears, jingle the bell on her collar. "What _can_ I do?"

Her purring stopped, and she batted at his jaw, nearly falling off him in the process. Giving her a soft, fond smile as he caught her and set her back, Arthur kept his eyes on the forest.

"There's something out there," he told her quietly. "I don't know what, but it's out there, and it's waiting for me to slip up. It's in the woods; I can feel it staring at me."

"Then stop staring back," Alfred grumbled from the bed, and Arthur looked at him, sprawled on his back with an arm slung over his eyes and the other in the crease of the sheets Arthur's body had made. The blankets were twisted over his hips, knotted around one leg, and he looked gorgeous lying there, Adonis in the bed of Aphrodite, but Arthur was not so arrogant as to presume himself to be worthy of such a man. "And come back to bed. Christ, I can hear you thinking from here."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Arthur sniped back, but there was little to no bite in his words. "I didn't mean to wake you by actually using my brain."

Alfred waved his middle finger in his boyfriend's general direction, and twisted to fling his limbs over Arthur the moment the other had settled back into the mattress.

"Love you," he mumbled into the join of Arthur's shoulder and neck, and Arthur chuckled, put a hand in Alfred's hair.

"It was always you," he whispered back, and stroked that wheat-blond hair until Alfred's breaths had evened out again, his limbs turning to dead weight over him, warmth coiling in his chest.

Arthur, of course, didn't go back to sleep, choosing instead to stare at the ceiling, thoughts trailing back to the Gateway, to the Thing in the woods. God only knew what it was, but hadn't Gilbert said that there were worse things out there than the demon that had lurked in the Asylum? Arthur didn't believe for a second that Gilbert had truly paid it off, one soul, no matter how willing (and consequently untouchable, for Alexandrus had informed Arthur of it a few months later, and Arthur found it highly entertaining that even the Otherworld had its own loopholes. Sincerity, apparently, was one of them) could be enough to satisfy the demon's craving for payment. It was still around, locked into the Otherworld, perhaps, where it couldn't infect anyone, but it was still there.

Gilbert had spoken of Perdition, told him of the things that lurked there, of the Gateway and how it needed to be closed again, and really, Arthur should be looking into that, rather than eyeing up his boyfriend under the pretence of work and thinking about the things he could do to him if given half the chance. There were more important things, Arthur knew, than shagging his boyfriend, but what was important anymore? What really mattered now, beyond Alfred?

"You didn't sleep, did you?" Alfred grumbled a few hours later, the sun just beginning to send its first rays through the window, sending dappled, extended shadows across the walls and picking out pencil lines and ink blots on the desk.

Arthur lay there in silence for a few minutes, just listening to Alfred's breaths as they fluttered against his neck, felt the thump of Alfred's heart against his ribs, revelled in the warmness of the cocoon the other's body had encased him in, the tightness of Alfred's hand on his hip.

"Arthur," he warned, and Arthur waved a nonchalant hand.

"I dozed."

"Bullshit," Alfred snorted, but hauled himself upright, swinging out of bed and padding across the landing into the bathroom. Not for the first time, Arthur sent a prayer of thanks to the ceiling, grateful that Timo and Berwald had taken Peter in for the year Arthur had been inside, and supremely grateful that Peter didn't want to come back.

Still, Alfred had a nice arse, so it wasn't like he was complaining. Much.

"What's the plan for today?" Alfred called, and Arthur rolled out of bed and stretched aching limbs.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror as he did so, and hated what he saw.

"I was going to get the next issue planned out," Arthur shrugged. "But if you've got a better idea, I'm all ears."

Alfred's laugh echoed across the house. "You're insatiable!"

"You love it."

"I was going to see Feli, actually," Alfred told him after a moment had passed. Arthur heard him spit, then water ran, and Alfred reappeared in the doorway. "I need to ask him about some stuff."

"The people who are calling the landline," Arthur corrected, and then asked, "And what his family has found out?"

Alfred stared at him over his shoulder, underwear in hand. "You know about that?"

"I'm not an idiot." He frowned at his boyfriend for a moment, watching the arch of his back as he staggered, trying to pull his socks on. "I'm not some damsel, Alfred, I don't need rescuing. I can take care of myself."

"Really?" Alfred asked, a bitter, angry note creeping into his voice as his eyebrows lowered into a scowl, directed not at Arthur, but at the pair of tattered, faded jeans he was pulling on. Arthur could feel his heart skittering, and knew Alfred's was doing the same. "Then why am I the one who has to get you out of the Otherworld? Why am I the one who has to drop everything I'm doing to come take care of you when you're sat in the corner sobbing like a little girl 'cause the big bad Ghosts are out to get you?"

Arthur's frown turned into a glare as Alfred finished dressing, and his heart thumped against his ribs, a staccato of anger and fear that sent his brain skittering for a split second. "I never asked you to! I never asked for you to stay! I distinctly remember telling you to _piss off_ when I went inside, and you wouldn't go! No matter how many times I leave you, Alfred, _you're_ always the one who comes back!"

"Because you killed me!" Alfred snapped. "You ripped my heart out of my chest and took with it anything that Matt left!"

"Well excuse me for saving your life! Next time I won't bother!"

"Good!" Alfred snapped, "Because you're the one who has to die to get me killed!"

"Oh, rot in hell!"

"Don't worry! I'm already there!"

The door slammed shut, and Arthur's heart was pounding, blood rushing in his ears, threatening to drown him where he stood, trembling and gasping for breath. He could hear Alfred's heavy footfalls on the stairs, Salem hissing, and then the front door slammed. A moment of stillness passed, and Arthur was staggering his way into the bathroom to vomit nothing but bile into the toilet.

* * *

><p>He went to see Francis a few hours later, finding the older man back at the club, working on some paperwork.<p>

"Don't you have kids to tutor?" Arthur asked as he stepped into the cool darkness of the bar.

"Don't you have a fight to work out?" Francis countered, not looking up. "And no, she's ill, so I've got the day off."

"You heard about that?" he mumbled, looking at his feet for a second.

"Of course I heard about it," Francis told him, capping his pen and straightening. "Unfortunately for you, I hear about pretty much everything, including your little escapade in the wheat fields out of town." When Arthur's ears went red, he laughed, and stretched. "Do you really regret saving Alfred's life, Arthur?"

"Of course I don't," Arthur snapped, finally throwing himself onto the chair opposite his best friend. "But – I'm responsible for the boy now, you know? It's just – I saved his life, and tied it to my own. His heart is mine, his very_ life_ is mine. I've got to keep myself alive to keep him alive, and no matter what I do to try and make him live his own life, he never listens."

"Has it occurred to you that maybe, just _maybe_, Alfred _wants_ to be part of your life? And that _maybe_ – I might be wrong here, so don't hold me to it – maybe you need to stop seeing him as the boy you put in a coma, and as the man you fell in love with?" He spread idle hands, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "I mean, _really_, kitten, what happened to you? To you both? You were the picture of innocence and young love and all that we as human beings long to have in our lives, and yet here you are, _again_, in the fallout of another fight over the asininity that befalls even the greatest of lovers. Oh, yes, I have fought too."

"Don't talk shit," Arthur chided, picking at a paperclip on the table, not once meeting Francis' eyes. "I – Francis, it's not for lack of trying. But – do you know how hard it is, to love and know you are loved, and yet, nothing you do can measure up to that? I mean, I thought so hard about it, about all that Alfred has done for me over the years, all that I have never done for him, and – I've tried, so hard, to be the man I thought I had to be – I mean – I saved his life, didn't I? When the experts thought he was gone, I pulled him out of the arms of death and breathed life back into him."

Francis chortled. "Why do you have to insist on waxing poetic, Arthur? What you did was what any man with your power would do to save the one he loves. I never got to see you after you went to the Asylum for the last time, but I heard about it. I know that you called the police and went straight to Alfred's room and set up camp there, waiting for him to wake. I heard about how you kissed him and vowed your love unto him. And I saw you the day you told him about Matthew's Ghost, I saw his reaction and I saw how you wanted to touch him, how you wanted to sweep him into your arms and promise him that everything would be okay even as he shattered into a thousand pieces before you, and I saw how it tore you apart. But that is your failing, I think, kitten, you think too much and fail to act. For all your words and all your thoughts, you have never been much of a man of action."

"And you call me poetic."

"Oh, hush, kitten."

Arthur frowned at the paperclip. "I wish you'd stop calling me kitten."

Francis grinned at him, and hummed delightedly, resting his chin on one hand. "I could call you my little rabbit if you prefer."

Arthur kicked him.

"You do that, and I'll nail your balls to the ceiling."

There was an indulgent look on Francis' face. "I know you, Arthur, you don't visit without reason; what are you after?"

"I need a lift," he told the paperclip, now bent into a snail-like shape, in the process of being bent into a tighter coil. "To the Church."

"What a surprise," Francis replied, snarky and even a little bored. "I tell you, it's a good job I no longer have that SUV isn't it? Think of the petrol I used to use up ferrying you around." He hauled himself to his feet and gestured for Arthur to follow.

"Oh, give over, Francis," Arthur chided, a droll look on his face as he stepped outside and waited for the other to unlock the car doors. "You got rid of that SUV years ago because the millage was so bad. That's why you went and bought this piece of junk Peugeot two-oh-six instead."

"Hey," Francis protested, lovingly patting the roof of the car before unlocking the driver's side door and climbing in. After he'd unlocked the door and Arthur had pulled it open, he said, "This car is an absolutely beauty, and much better than that Mini you used to drive."

Arthur snorted and clipped the seatbelt into place. "That Mini was fine until Alfred ruined the suspension. You only like this car because you can race Timo in it."

"That too."

Five hours in a car with Francis was an utter nightmare, Arthur knew that, but since Alfred was now off wherever he was, throwing a tantrum – most likely, he was with Feliciano, blubbing into a cappuccino and whining about how unfair life was, and Feliciano was indulging him as much as the Italian ever indulged anyone – there were few other options available to him. He could, theoretically, drive himself, but he wasn't sure he wouldn't do something dangerous, stupid and possibly even fatal if left alone. Of course, being in the Church meant he was alone, but it was silent there, a place where the Ghosts couldn't touch him.

If he was to drive himself there, he might not make it.

"What are you going to the Church for anyway?" Francis asked after an hour, and for a moment, Arthur ignored him, his attention stuck on the scenery. "Arthur?"

The Englishman made a questioning noise, snapped his gaze to where Francis was frowning at the road and said, "Oh, uh, what?"

Shifting gear, Francis repeated himself. Arthur watched the muscles in the Frenchman's arm, the way the sun glinted off the silver ring on his index finger, the way it caught in the dark blond hair on the back of his arm, a faint criss-cross of straw spun into gold.

"Arthur!"

He jerked a little, blinking at the force put into his name, and mumbled, "I want the quiet."

Francis slammed on the brakes and jerked the handbrake. Paused, both hands on the wheel. Sighed, killed the engine. Shifted in his seat. "The quiet."

"Yes, the quiet. What, am I not allowed?"

Francis raised his hands. "Always so defensive! Really, kitten, I'm not judging you – well, I am judging you, that's the problem – no, what I mean to say is; why do you need the quiet enough to want it?"

"It's noisy without Alfred in here keeping it down," Arthur replied, drawing his legs up to his chest, tapping his temple with a knuckle before burying his nose in his knees.

"Oh, kitten," Francis sighed. He reached out and put a hand on Arthur's hair, tangled his fingers in it, stroked down to rest on the jut of bone sticking out of the back of his neck, and his skin was warm and soft and the pressure was nice, Arthur thought, curling into it, even if it burnt with its warmth, the age in Francis's skin wearing on him. "You think too much, you know that?"

"I know," he mumbled back, staring resolutely at the winding road ahead of them. "That's the problem."

Francis' phone buzzed in his pocket, the bleep friendly; a text message.

"You going to read that?"

"No," Francis replied. "It will wait. You will not. We're going to sort this out, Arthur, between us. Yourself, Alfred and I, we'll sort this out, together. We have already let it go on for far too long."

"I wish I knew what was happening to me." It was a quiet admission, whispered into the heavy denim on his knees, and he wondered if Francis had even heard.

"So do I, kitten. So do I." He rubbed his thumb across a vertebra and squeezed softly. "Now come on, put your feet down – if you've marked the seat, I'll kill you – and let's get you to where you need to be. Unlike you, I have a job that has hours."

Arthur did as asked, and sent a shaky smile Francis's way as the older started the car once more. "Thank you," he whispered.

"You're welcome."

A moment of silence passed, and Arthur settled deeper into the seat, looking out at the sky.

"It's going to rain," he said.

"It always rains," Francis dismissed, absent.

Arthur glanced across at him. "Francis!" he snapped. "Don't text while you're driving! Christ Almighty you're as bad as Feliciano!"

Francis laughed, but didn't put the phone away. "Kitten, there's no one else on the road, it's clear, and I've been driving since before I was legally allowed to. Besides, if you'd care to recall, I wanted to be a stunt driver before I inherited the club."

"As I _recall_," Arthur told him, turning his chin up, "You got your licence revoked for dangerous driving." There was a minute's silence and then he asked, "What was it?"

"So nosy!" Francis grinned, and he had the audacity to reach across and tap Arthur's nose. Laughing when the Englishman swatted at him, he said, "It was Alfred, asking if you're okay. He's tried ringing your phone, but you're not picking up."

"I left it at home," Arthur said. "I didn't think – I – it doesn't matter, either way."

"And you call me the dangerous one."

"Oh, can it."

Francis laughed again, and they lapsed into silence.

Once again, Arthur was the one to break it. "He's worried about me, isn't he? More than he lets on."

"Of course he's more worried than he lets on. We all are."

Arthur chewed this over for a minute. "Even you?"

"Even me," Francis repeated, glancing across at where Arthur frowned at him. There was a softness in his voice that Arthur hadn't heard for years, and he supposed that it was the voice he used whilst tutoring. It was the voice of a big brother, the big brother Arthur had never had despite the blood in William's veins, the big brother he'd failed to be to Peter.

His phone bleeped again, but the older blond ignored it this time, focusing instead on the road.

"Is that – is that Lily of the Valley I can smell?"

It had been perhaps ten minutes of silence, perhaps, and Arthur had been the one to break it, once again. He wondered if that was why driving with Francis was utter hell – he couldn't keep his trap shut, and Francis just goaded him.

Francis flicked something hanging from the rear-view mirror. "New air freshener. One of the girls I tutor bought it for me. She said it reminded her of home, and when I told her I was born in Chinon, she insisted I have it."

When Arthur looked at it, he said, "It looks like a bird of some kind."

"It's an angel," Francis replied. "The Archangel Michael."

Arthur let go as though burnt and shrank back in his seat. Francis shot him a look.

"What was that?"

"I – I don't know."

"Clearly. If one young girl's religious beliefs upset you that much, I'll take it down."

"No, no, it's not that. It's just – I don't know what it is. I'm sorry," he grit out. "I overreacted."

"You think?"

Arthur smacked the other's arm, and Francis just laughed.

* * *

><p>"Will you be alright?"<p>

"I'll be fine."

"Are you sure? I can stay, if you need me. I can call Marie and tell her I'm sick."

Arthur made an amused little noise. "She won't buy it, she never buys it." He shook his head with another low laugh. "Just go, Francis. The Church is hallowed ground. I'm safe there."

"But safe from what? The Ghosts? Or yourself?"

"Both," Arthur replied with a shrug, because what point was there in lying? He raked a hand through his hair, and shrugged again. "I'll be fine – as fine as I can be, anyway – and you know where I am. Not that you'll be able to get in touch, but you know where I am. I just – I need to think, I need to be somewhere where I can't get interrupted, and the Church is the best place to be for that."

"Are you going to think of how to apologise to Alfred?"

"We are both at fault."

Francis blew a stray lock of hair from his face. "Well, at least you admit it now."

"_Francis_."

"I'm going, I'm going." The older man took a few steps back towards the car, and then paused, looked back. His eyes narrowed for a second into something that vaguely resembled a frown. "I'll tell Alfred you're here," he said, "Just so he knows. He'll probably come to get you in a few hours. You know how he gets."

"Can't stay away."

"Do you think that maybe it's because he loves you?"

"I know he loves me," Arthur whispered. "And one day, that's going to kill him. But it's okay, because it'll kill me, too. We won't have time to miss each other."

"You're a morbid bastard sometimes, kitten."

Arthur waved a hand. "Go on, get going."

"Be careful." Francis caught his jaw with one hand and planted a brotherly kiss on his forehead, a kiss from which Arthur shied with a disgusted noise.

"Always."

And he slipped through the door of the Church of the Martyred Alexandrus without another word.

It was quiet in the Church, a stillness made of faith and prayer, and it was a full silence, a place filled with people without a single heart beating within its walls. Warm without being oppressive, light without being blinding, open without being empty, it had been a well-loved building, and though the first time Arthur had been brought to the Church at the hands of Alexandrus himself, the doors had been chained shut, the Church now stood open to any who chose to enter it.

"Is anybody here?" he called as he stepped into the nave, the chill in the air suggesting that someone – something – _was_.

He was, of course, met with silence, but he was long since used to being met with silence. The air in the nave was always cold, and there was always the edge of a laugh on his throat, a laugh not entirely his own.

"Gil?"

More silence, but a smile curled his lips, familiar and warm, smug and even a little fond. The laugh that came from him after a second was his own, and the smile morphed into his own grin.

"I thought you weren't staying? The Gateway was open, you said, but it was too dangerous for you and Matthew to stay here. So how have you come back? Or is it this place? Is this place safe?"

He nodded a little, taking a step back and away, back towards the doors. The flagstone was loose as he neared it, and it took only a second to pry it up.

There was a pile of letters underneath, some written in a childish hand obviously a good two decades old, some recent, some newer still. One looked fresh; the ink was still wet.

_To the me that reads this,_

_You won't understand, but you need to know:_

_It's not safe. Get out. They know. They're coming for you._

_They'll kill him – Al – all of them._

_To get to you. They want you dead._

_Nobody's safe – from them, from you._

_Get out – leave and don't come back._

_Please. I beg myself to just go and don't look back. Leave them where they're safe and go._

_They are looking for you and they will rest at nothing until your corpse lies six feet under on its way to hell. So please._

_Go. Now._

_Arthur. 24__th__ April._

"Gil?" Arthur whispered, and looked up.

Whether he expected an answer from the younger man, whether he expected the Ghost to have suddenly appeared as he held his cursive, wet scrawl in shaking hands, nothing was forthcoming.

Instead, a trickle of rain rolled down the red stained glass of a rose, held in the delicate hands of an angel. Carved into the billowing robes of the celestial being, scratched into the glass like ancient graffiti, was a circle. Inside that circle was a triangle, and the inside of the triangle held a square. The square had its own circle inside, and it caught in the light, each line of geometry carved several times, built up to form alchemy instead of shapes.

"What do I do?" he whispered, terrified, even as he shoved the flagstone back into place and climbed to his feet. "What do I do?"

Somewhere, a clock chimed midnight.

"Hey, I've found him. Yeah. Yeah, I know, I don't know how we missed him either."

Footsteps, on the ground next to him, keeping pace. A laugh on a warm voice; sea and sand and blistering sunshine, worry on the edge of an accent; bulls and red cloths, fire and faith. His vision swam for a second, and a hand curled around his waist, held him as he staggered, clutched his head. He kept walking, and the footsteps kept stride.

"He looks like he's about to keel over. I don't know, I haven't spoken to him yet. Hey, Arthur? How long have you been walking?"

"Long enough," he whispered back. "Long enough."

"No," the voice said, tone directed at someone that Arthur couldn't see, couldn't hear. "He's not. Alright, I'll bring him your way. See you in five." A sigh. "Come on you, Alfred's waiting."

"I can't," Arthur shook his head vehemently, trying – and failing – to tug himself free of Antonio Fernandez Carriedo's far-too-firm grip. "I can't go back, can't risk him getting hurt. You'll all get hurt, because of me."

"Damn right we'll get hurt 'cause of you!" Antonio snapped, finally forcing Arthur to a halt, but the Englishman refused to meet his eyes, staring off at the white mists curling in on the edge of the woods. "Do you know how many times I've been stung with nettles? How much sleep we've lost looking for you?"

"I never asked you to look for me."

"No, but Alfred did, and since I'm under Vargas payroll, I do as I'm told. Alfred wanted us to look for you, so here we are. Now hold still."

The vague sensation of being lifted, carried, paella and wine, hot chocolate and dough. Warmth and footsteps that matched his stride. Fire and faith and strength honed in a ring.

"How long," Arthur began, whispered into olive skin darkened by the sun of a distant, golden country, and then paused. Started again. "How long have I been gone?"

"Thirty-six hours," Antonio whispered back.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

Fuck you, **Slender Man**, fuck you and your trees.

I love **Greek myths**.

About **kitten**: I've seen a lot of French endearments used when Francis gets in one of his moods, but I decided against using them in their original French. One of my favourites is _mon chaton_, meaning _my kitten_. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact I often call people 'kitten' instead of 'lovely', nothing at all. I played with the idea of calling him 'bunny' (_Mon lapin_) but I also decided against that one, it's weird. (And only suitable for the Author!Anon RP-verse. /shot)

Francis' **Peugeot 206** is, of course, one of the WRC cars. For those who don't really follow it (I don't as much as I used to, I should though) **The French and the Finns are usually in the top places every year**. I just had a look at this year's standings thus far: Seb Loeb (France) is currently in the lead, with Mikko Hirvonen of Finland in second. I'm not surprised if I'm honest. I have a head!canon of those two taking time out of meetings in suitable places to rally drive their way through other nation's houses and getting arrested.

Arthur, what the hell? Apparently, he's been reading **Rumpelstiltskin **since he's described Francis's _**arm hair**_** as straw spun into gold**. My brain is mush.

**William** is my human name for Scotland.

I'm wondering if any of you have realised who **the girl Francis is tutoring** is. **How well do you guys know French history and/or have been paying attention to France's storylines?**

Fear my knowledge of **Spanish cuisine**. Also, **hot chocolate and dough **is a reference to Spain's (un)healthy love for churros, which are often served with hot choc for breakfast. Apparently. Citation: Wikipedia. I also completely ignored how they're big on seafood *gags*

**I say I 'now have Twitter'** but in reality, I've had it for a year, and just never touch it. Still. Link in profile, feel free to follow me and read my utter fail at anything and everything.

And, lol, whoops, I just spotted a typo (now fixed, just so you know) in chapter 2, in which I say they've been together 7 years, not counting the year Arthur was in prison. That uh, that year does count. Let's all pretend I can do math, shall we? That sounds good to me! Oh, and also? Five hours in a car? Where the hell do they live? I don't know, but let's pretend it's not five hours because that's unrealistic. It takes about two hours to get to my university from where I live, which is at least halfway across England.

**ANYWAY. I hope you've enjoyed my lovelies, because I'm having so much fun with this world, you wouldn't believe. The things I have planned! ++Vince++**


	5. God is Wearing Black

**For this chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **USUK, Japan. Mentioned; PruCan, China, and Team GB.

**Rating: **K+

**Warnings:** _Angst_. _Language_. _Slash:_ Do I need to keep putting this one here? Possible OOCness from Britain (AGAIN GOD.)

**Chapter Summary: **Angels sing their hymns and there is a message waiting.

**A/N: ** So I'm in a foul mood today. I'm taking it out on the guys. I'm so mean. ONWARDS. Notes at the end! Enjoy my lovelies!

**Chapter Five: God is Wearing Black (System of a Down, **_**Soldier Side**_**)**

"Arthur, where are you going?"

"To the port."

"And then what?"

"I'm going to the mainland, and I'm getting a flight to England."

"Why? What'll it accomplish? _Nothing_! It won't do anything for you – it'll make things _worse_!"

Arthur finally stopped and wheeled round, eyes like fire as his glare levelled itself against Alfred's cobalt own, and he exhaled angrily. "Dammit, Alfred!" he spat, raking a hand through his hair. "Don't you understand? There's no one here that can help. No family, no other psychics. Nothing. Just me. Just me and you and the silence in my head. But it's _not_ silence any more, Al, that's the problem! Christ, I was wandering around out there for _thirty-six_ hours! Thirty-six! Do you realise what that means? _Dammit, Al_! I'm more Ghost than man! And all it took was one piece of paper! If the Church isn't safe for me anymore, nothing on this island is."

Eyes locked, breaths held, they stared at each other, silently willing the other to back down.

"You can't go," Alfred whispered after a moment, stepping closer with a hand extended. Arthur's shift was subtle, but definitely away from Alfred's fingers. "You can't just _leave_."

"I can email you the story sheets, Alfred," Arthur assured him. "It's not like I physically need to be here. I can do my side of the comic from anywhere in the world."

"That's not – I don't – I just…" Stricken, Alfred dropped his hand, turned his eyes to the side, swallowed thickly. "I don't want you to go."

Arthur stepped closer still, reaching up to touch Alfred's cheek with the hand not holding the holdall. "Al, listen to me. I have to leave, if either of us are going to survive. My sister knows a lot more about these things than I do, and if we can convince Daragh and William to help, I might be able to come back. But I can't stay, not with the danger I put you in on a day-to-day basis. Christ, Al, there are people out there who want to _kill_ me. There are _dead_ people out there who want me dead. If I don't go now, we might not survive another week. You saw the note, you saw the date. I was with you the whole time we went to the fields – even when I went to the Church, I didn't write a note, you'd have seen it. So I wrote it later, whilst you were working, but I don't _remember_ writing something like that. I knew – I had to have already known about the alchemists, I had to have – who else would be a threat to us? But _when_ did I write it, Al? When did I get it to the Church? How did I manage to disappear for _thirty-six hours_?"

When it became obvious Alfred wasn't going to reply, Arthur exhaled a laugh, bitter and disappointed, even a little angry – at himself, not at Alfred, _never_ at Alfred – and turned away.

"I'll call you when I hit English soil," he said, and stepped through the door.

* * *

><p>The town was, of course, white, and Arthur laughed a little, shook his head and stood on the doorstep for a minute, looking out over the world that lingered behind, a world with no paths and no destinies, no life and death getting in the way of the endless routines.<p>

A little girl stood next to him for a moment, her hand curled insubstantially around his own, a soft smile on her face. He smiled back, just as soft, if a little morose. As if sensing his mood – and she probably did, Ghosts were nothing if not astute – her smile became a grin and her fingers slipped from his, but remained loosely curled as if still holding. Beckoning.

"Where are you leading me?" he asked her, but obligingly stepped closer and followed her through the throng of Ghostly beings, some recognising him and waving a hello, others cursing him and his mother's grave, and yet more still ignoring him, unaware they were even dead. "I hope it's not somewhere dangerous."

_Don't be silly! What would I do that for?_

Arthur laughed. "Because I know you, you're a little trickster."

She turned back, and grinned at him, a devilish little smile.

For a while, Arthur followed her; she seemed to be leading to the port, so he didn't see the harm in it. She was ignoring him for the best part, stopping occasionally, to make sure he was following, but otherwise blanking his existence. It would be very easy to slip away, but what was the point? His phone rang in his pocket, but he ignored it, ignored what it meant.

"I'm doing what's best," he told it, and who, really, was he trying to convince? "I'm saving both our lives."

The song ended, and silence reigned for a second, and of course it was silence that reigned, because Arthur was the only living being in the Otherworld; he was the only being making noise that the Ghosts then echoed. The song started again, a soft _you'll remember me, when the west wind moves, among the fields of barley_ curling around him, echoed across his brain in Alfred's voice as he hummed it, subconsciously perhaps, not realising what it had become to Arthur, too wrapped up in his work to notice the smile on the older man's face, the silence in his head.

After the third time, he conceded and pulled it from his pocket, gathering breath to fight his case.

The name stunned him.

"Kiku?"

"_Arthur, hello. Alfred called."_

"Figures. Go on, berate me for leaving like this."

"_Why would I do that? No, I was going to suggest that you come to my house in Osaka. At least then there will be someone to keep an eye on you that Alfred knows personally. It is nothing against your family, but from what I gather they are not the – ah – most co-operative sort._"

Arthur scoffed. "That's a little bit of an understatement, Kiku." He laughed a little, stood still in the middle of the Otherworld, and it didn't once cross his mind that Kiku shouldn't have been able to contact him here. This world was a dead zone, there were no signals except for those already in there. Alfred was a loophole, Arthur figured. Though not a physical presence in the Otherworld himself, as long as Arthur was there, Alfred had access.

It was a miracle, he thought, that Alfred hadn't been pulled into the Otherworld himself yet. The transitions were always so awkward – he had the triggers, certainly, he'd expected that walking out on Alfred, _again_, would set the Otherworld off – but they were never explained, never justified.

They just were.

They always _just were_.

"What am I supposed to do, Kiku?" he asked. "What _can_ I do? Alfred's – he's not _safe_. I have to do _something_."

"_Well, personally, I believe you're utterly insane, but I agree with you. You must do something. But we should discuss it face-to-face and not over the phone. When can I expect you?_"

"When did you get to be so forward?" Arthur smiled. "Last I heard you were this meek little thing."

"_Some things happen_," Kiku explained with an audible shrug in his voice. "_That we cannot control or avoid. We must merely allow their currents to take us to where we need to be, and when we wash ashore once more, we must pick up the pieces and carry on." _He paused. _"I got into – I had a – I had to start my life again."_

"Yao?" Arthur queried, because there was little else that could upset Kiku quite as much.

"_If you wish_." Arthur took it for a yes.

Arthur sighed. "I… I'll call you when I get to the mainland. I'll see what the earliest flight to Osaka is and see if I can get on it."

"_I expect to hear from you soon_."

And he hung up. For a minute or so, Arthur hovered, his thumb on the keys, and then decided that he might as well.

_You called Kiku?_

A moment passed and then Alfred replied with, _Well who else was I meant to call?_

He thought about it, and eventually said, _You could have called me._

Alfred sent a grinning face and, _/sarcasm. Would you talk about it? No. So why bother? You never talk to me. Even though that's what I'm here for. We're meant to be in a RELATIONSHIP._

Arthur thought about it, and mused idly that his phone was silver and black again, the screen lit up in blue. _I need time to get it straight in my head._

_You've had twenty-two years to get it straight in your head._

Ouch.

_We have talked about it._

_No, you told me that you couldn't stay because it wasn't safe. You didn't ask my opinion on it._

_What's your opinion on it?_ Two could play at being sarcastic.

_I think you should stay, and let me help you._

_I wish I could._

Alfred didn't reply so Arthur stowed his phone back in his pocket and stood still some more. His guide had either carried on without him, or just returned to her routine, but either way, she wasn't with him now. He stared into the woods for a while, frowned at the shadows stretching out towards him and laughed a dark little laugh. Alfred's internet history was full of such asininity; didn't he know that that tall fellow in the black suit didn't really exist? It felt like eyes were staring back at him, and he decided it was a rabbit.

Chewing his lip, he'd pulled his phone out again and tapped out a quick message before sending it to Osaka.

_Going to talk to Alfred. Don't wait up._

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, Arthur sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, frowning at the fireplace. Alfred sat next to him, arm shifting as if he wanted to put it over Arthur's shoulders, but didn't dare. The younger man cracked his knuckles whilst his elder gnawed on a thumbnail.<p>

"So," Alfred started, and then stopped.

"So," Arthur repeated quietly.

"Are we going to talk about this?"

"I suppose we ought to, now we're here."

"It might help."

"It won't."

"You never know."

Arthur sighed exasperatedly. "Alfred, stop it. I know my own fate, and merely talking about it – Al, it won't save my life. Hell, I think I'm already dead."

"You're not," Alfred assured him, and touched the sliver of skin just barely visible between his shirt hemline and the waistband of his jeans. His hand was warm, almost too warm, and it flooded him from where they connected, and it was nice to feel it again, when Arthur had been so cold for so long. "You're freezing."

"I'm always cold."

"I'll have to warm you up then, won't I?" And he curled his limbs up around Arthur, pulling the older man – making noise of protest and threatening violence all the way – into his lap, holding him close. "See?" he grinned into Arthur's temple, planting a kiss there for good measure. "We're making progress already."

"You're an idiot." But it was a fond insult, so Alfred paid it no heed. Arthur suspected, admittedly, that he hadn't even noticed it.

The Englishman shifted a little to better fit his limbs amongst Alfred's, and they almost toppled off the couch. Alfred slammed a foot against the coffee table and righted them again, shimmying back so they lay sprawled out over the cushions, and Alfred smiled up at him.

"Hey, there," he said, and brushed a hand through Arthur's hair.

"Not on the couch," was the older man's reply, and he settled himself against Alfred's warmth. "Where do I begin?"

"How about with why you keep leaving me?" Alfred asked, a hand slipping up under Arthur's shirt to rest on the small of his back, the other continuing to play with his hair. "And don't give me the same shit about safety that you usually do. It's nothing to do with safety."

"I'm scared," Arthur admitted after a moment's silence. "I'm scared I'm going to hurt you like I did before. I put you in a coma, and I know I should be past that, because I saved your life after wrecking it, and I know you've forgiven me for it – don't consider it my fault even – but it niggles, at the back of my head. If I'd kept you out of the loop when Matthew died, I could have kept you safe. Without me Opening your head to the Otherworld, you wouldn't have felt the shift in Matthew's aura, and you wouldn't have insisted on following me to the Asylum."

"I would have followed you anyway, after the last time. We were so worried when we found Gilbert, I mean, he was as out of it as anything, but then you just _weren't_ here, and we had no idea where you were. I would have followed you to the Asylum anyway, just to try and keep you safe."

"You wouldn't have been able to."

"I love you," Alfred shrugged. "And I'd realised it by that point. It was the end of the week, wasn't it, so I had to have. But I would have kept you safe because that's what love means."

Arthur scoffed. "You're so idealistic. You'd have been killed. You _were_ killed."

"My body only thinks it's dead. I'm still alive."

"With my heart, love, with my heart."

"And what a wonderful heart it is too."

This time, Arthur laughed outright, muffled by Alfred's T-shirt. "You're a fool. A delightful, wonderful fool, and one I wouldn't change, but you're a fool nonetheless."

"Arthur, stop changing the subject," Alfred chided, and had the audacity to wink when Arthur shot him a look.

With a shake of his head, Arthur sighed a little. "Next question."

"What are you scared of? I can't die without you, we've already established that. I don't remember the last time I sneezed, so it's not like you'll ever put me in another coma. So it's something else, something less about me, and more about you. I'm not a complete idiot, I know when you're stressing. I can feel it, remember?"

Arthur sighed again. "I'm going insane," he said. "We all know it – hell, Kiku said it outright that he thinks I'm already nuts, and you know what he's like for giving his opinion. God, Al, I'm scared I'm going to go off the deep end and go so far I don't even know who you are. It's happened."

"I know. I read the blog about it. I remain convinced it was an ARG for my own sanity." The American stared off into the space above Arthur's head for a little while. "But I don't think you'll end up like she did. You haven't abused your clairvoyance, hell, you've fought against it. She abused it, and she had karma bite her in the ass for it. Bad things happen to bad people, and you aren't a bad person."

Arthur gave him a droll look. "Please," he said, "Don't insult me by trying to insinuate that I'm a saint."

Alfred kissed the corner of his mouth. "Love you really."

"It was always you."

"You won't go insane, Artie, I promise you," Alfred told him, and it was such a sincere promise, Arthur wondered if Alfred had matured these last seven years, or whether the death of his body had killed his mind as well, froze it as the nineteen-year-old lying in a coma with spine and brain trauma severe enough to ruin him that he had been. "It's my job to keep you on the straight and narrow."

"And what a wonderful job of it you're doing," Arthur hummed. "I'm about as straight and narrow as a curly straw."

"You stole that line."

"So?" He exhaled heavily. "I can't help but think it might happen. I have to be prepared for all eventualities, right? So here I am, preparing for all eventualities."

"Well pushing me away won't help, since, unfortunately for you and your stupid plans, I need you to survive. It's the only great thing about being tied to you like this, I can say sappy shit and you can't punch me for it, 'cause it's true."

"You wish." And he punched him anyway.

After getting whined at for a few moments, Arthur kissed the not-hurt better and waved a hand. "Let's keep going."

"So you're scared you're going to go insane and forget who I am and consequently hurt me. Okay, I can deal with that. I'll get a shotgun and keep it under the pillow – joking, joking, God – I'll take it seriously, and start practicing those alchemy circles you gave me so I can keep you contained if you do start climbing the walls. Which you won't. But anyway, the letter to yourself. You wrote that the day after your birthday, and it's been what, three, four days since then? The ink was still wet, and you don't remember writing it. I sure as hell don't remember seeing you write it whilst we were up there. What the hell?"

"I don't know," Arthur admitted. "I really don't have a clue. I suppose I could have spaced out and written it whilst I was in the Church the day before last. But, why would I lie about the date? The entire purpose of putting dates on the letters was to keep track of my own timeline. If I can't trust my own warnings now... And the reaction, too. I mean, I went to the Otherworld for thirty-six hours, and I don't remember a single one of them. That's never happened before. My time-keeping's a little off when I'm in the Otherworld, sure, if I'm separated from you, and minutes feel like hours and hours feel like minutes, but I've never lost track of an entire Trip before."

"And the thing in the woods?"

"Not a clue. It feels like Matthew's demon, but there's something wrong with it. Something that isn't quite the same. It feels almost human. Like I'm being stalked. Have you felt anything?"

Alfred shook his head. "Nothing. But, I'm not really Open anymore, am I? I don't feel anything you don't feel."

A hum of thought filled the air between them, and Arthur stopped after a moment to say, "I'm worried about it. I was in those woods for so long without being found. Like I wasn't there at all. What if the thing in there got to me before you? What if it's the reason you couldn't find me? What if it's still in me now, and I haven't realised? What if I'm not me, what if I'm the thing, and I'm tricking you into believing I'm me?"

"Arthur," Alfred chided, putting both hands on his boyfriend's face to hold him still, force their eyes to meet and hold. Arthur stared at him with a little dose of fear, and Alfred's stare back radiated something close to comfort. "Don't start on that. You're you, you've always been you. Nothing stays in you for long; it can't, you reject it if you haven't invited it in, and even when you do, you're too _alive_ for them to stay. I can feel you," he whispered, and let go with one hand to touch his chest, press his palm to his heart. "In here, I can feel you and it's you, just you. There's nothing else in there with you. Trust me. Please."

Arthur's stare turned to a slight frown of concern. "Are you sure?"

"Why would I lie? If you weren't you, I'd have sorted it out. You taught me how to exorcise if I had to. I'd have just exorcised you straight off."

A shaky exhale fanned across Alfred's face, and Arthur closed his eyes to the wheat blond's smile. "Damn you," he whispered, pressing their foreheads together. Something rattled outside their bubble, but Arthur thought he heard the tinkling of a bell, and assumed it was Salem. "Dam you to hell. Why do you have to be so bloody – _you_."

Alfred grinned against his mouth. "Who else would I be? You? _Boring_. Come on, Art, talk to me, keep going."

For a moment, utter silence reigned as Arthur thought about what to say. Eventually he said, "I think the Alchemists want my genetic code."

"You what?"

"My genetic code. Think about it. It's very rare that a true Clairvoyant is born. I mean, how hard did we have to dig before we found the what – seven – of them that are out there? Even my sister and brothers, even they aren't as powerful as I am. They didn't – I don't know whether it was a question of development, or if it's our blood, like carriers for recessive genes. I honestly don't know. But I'm the most – ah – paranormally inclined – of the four of us. Think of what the Alchemists could do with a sample of my DNA."

"You think they want to clone you?"

"I don't know what they want it for. But what else would it be when they're using the symbol for the Philosopher's Stone as their symbol – what the _hell_ is that noise?"

Alfred hummed quietly. "I thought it was the cat."

Arthur straightened, nearly winded Alfred with an elbow, and looked. "She's not in here. Salem?" he called. "Where are you?"

The cat flap in the kitchen door rattled a little, and he frowned.

"Salem?"

She yowled as if in pain, and immediately, he was on his feet, heading for the door, only to be thrown back by some invisible force.

Alfred caught him, steadied him, and they stared at it.

"What the hell is that?" Alfred whispered.

"I don't know."

The unlit light bulb above them burst, showering the room with sparks, and the house fell into silence as the power abruptly cut out.

"Okay, seriously," Alfred demanded, going to the door himself. "What the hell is going on?"

He slipped through as though there was nothing there, but when Arthur tried to follow – tentatively, this time, skin still singing as though burnt – he was blocked. He stepped back, frowned.

"Al, go find Salem."

"Can you see something?"

"I'm not sure," Arthur replied, stepping back to get a better look. "Yes. Yes, I can. I don't know what it is – it might be your psychic residue, an imprint of you, maybe, like you walked through a bubble or something. But it's wrong, it's not entirely you. There's something else."

It was definitely the shape of a man, but the arms were too wide, too big. They were, undoubtedly, the shape of wings.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

Arthur's **sister** is Wales, just SYK. Those familiar with _Scar Material_ will be aware of that.

The **little girl** is the one Britain finds at Japan's house. I love that episode.

If you read LSN, you know **Arthur's ringtone** was _Draw the Line_ by David Gray. It's now Eva Cassidy's _Fields of Gold_.

**Slender man**, lol. I keep mentioning him. Paranoia's a fun tool to play with.

**Arthur's phone is **_**old**_. Like, really old. It's my Nokia 6300. The poor thing is so battered.

I have been tricked by **ARGs before. **When done effectively, they mess with your head so bad.

I don't remember where I **stole that line** from.

**OOOOOOOH. Only not really. So yeah, I got into Homestuck. It started as a 'WTF YOU ON ABOUT GURL' with Apollo, and then I decided I'd be trolltastic with it, because apparently, APH/HS have major fandom hate or something, I don't even know. But then I got into it. You have no idea how tempting it was to put random references in. I may yet. So eyes open there. In other news, not a lot to report other than a bad mood, but that's par for the course with me, really. So yeah. Hope you enjoyed, my lovelies~! ++Vince++**


	6. On These Broken Wings I'm Falling

**For this chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **USUK

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Violence. Language. Slash, angst, and a little bit of a mind screw. Have fun with that. Temporary switch in perspective. SHORT CHAPTER OF SHORTNESS.

**Chapter Summary: **The fog rolls in and a message is sent.

**A/N: **Note to self: writing three fics at once and then reading Homestuck with only 14 days until you go to university is a bad idea. Negligible notes at the end. Enjoy, my lovelies!

**Chapter 6: On These Broken Wings I'm Falling (Nickelback; Saving Me)**

With knowledge came a price. For Alfred, the price was death. His body had died, his heart had stopped beating, blood still in his veins. It hadn't been murder on Arthur's part; there was no way Arthur _ever_ intended to kill him. It had been an attempt to save his life, Alfred knew that, had known that in the dark nothing between this world and that world. Arthur had inadvertently Opened him to the Otherworld by telling him of Matthew's Ghost, and Arthur had attempting to Close him off.

It had worked, with consequences.

Alfred's body and mind, held under the lock and key of the demon, had done everything it could to save itself from the foul temptation the creature had offered. When Arthur had Closed him off, his mind had slipped through the door as it slammed shut. With his mind locked away, his body died.

Only, it hadn't.

Convinced of its death, but knowing it was still alive, his body had latched onto the nearest semblance to a consciousness that it could; the imprint left in Arthur's wake.

Part of Alfred had always known that this would happen, and he'd always been prepared to give his everything to Arthur and ask for nothing in exchange except maybe a heart to replace the one he'd torn from his chest and handed to the Englishman without thinking anything of it. Arthur had given him that request, and the heart in Alfred's chest beat a rhythm that no longer registered on monitors, beat to the same drum that Arthur's did. At first, it was confusing, because Arthur was behind bars and unable to explain it away in the in-between of dreams and reality the way he always had, and Alfred lingered in his limbo; when he exercised, his heart remained steady, but when he sat at his desk, idly doodling the first character models of what would soon become his source of income, it pounded against his ribs, an erratic staccato of fear. With realisation came experimentation.

At first, limbo was nothing but a boon. With no death looming, his body refused to react to parasites and bacteria, leaving him free of illness and struggling to remember the last time he'd sneezed because of a cold or hay fever. His muscles hardened to stone, turning the once weedy teenager into a superhero – or so he'd said to Arthur, but Arthur had laughed it off until Alfred picked the oak bookcase a clear foot off the floor with one hand, and then the older had been forced to concede that yes, Alfred had strength that bordered on unnatural now. There was freedom in his diet too, because his system took what it wanted from whatever he ate, and ignored the rest of it.

Later, Arthur nearly throttled him for eating nothing but fast food for the year he'd been inside, and Alfred had laughed it off, but obligingly kept fast food for when Arthur was elsewhere.

Life – if it could be called that – was good.

And then Arthur had been released.

Problems started a few weeks after Alfred moved into the cottage, and the problems ran the whole spectrum of physical, mental and emotional possibilities. After a year apart from the other, things had shifted again, from strangers to friends to enemies to strangers to friends to lovers to strangers once again. They had to take the time to learn each other all over again, take the time to learnt to learn what the other didn't say. They had to take the time to learn each other's bodies and hearts and that was okay, Alfred didn't mind it, enjoyed it even, and the healthy flush on Arthur's face as he smiled, stroked a hand through Alfred's sweat-damp hair, laughing breathlessly as he arched certainly agreed. No, learning the things that could turn Arthur to putty wasn't the problem, it was the fact Arthur just _wouldn't talk_.

He had problems, Alfred knew that – had known it since they first met, really – and he knew that it had to do with his – his what? Ability? Power? Gift? – clairvoyance, but the extent to which Arthur suffered was foreign knowledge. He tried to determine what triggered the headaches, and tried, to varied success, to wean him off painkillers he'd been addicted to for months, if not years. Going cold turkey, he'd learnt, _did not_ work, it just sent him spiralling to the Otherworld with the kind of homicidal tomfoolery or the enraged dead. Giving him alternative painkillers helped a little, though offering sex – which he'd read as a cure for a headache once – got him a smack upside the head and a night on the couch. Sometimes, however occasionally, it worked, so whatever.

After a few weeks of shared living, the Echoes began. At first Alfred thought he was imagining it, just light catching off the lenses of his glasses, a ringing in his ears, a little bit of déjà vu maybe. When he brought it up with Arthur, the Englishman had frowned at him, made a gesture. Three seconds later, Alfred's eyes followed the trail of light that darted across the room. It hit a picture frame on the mantle, and a crack appeared in the glass.

As if a door had been opened, Arthur became more forthcoming with information about what was going through his head and how the Ghosts affected him. Alfred didn't complain about being allowed to cuddle more than normal; he was honest, he'd always preferred softer romances to earthier ones; cuddles and Eskimo kisses to sex and filthy make-outs. It wasn't as though Arthur told him _everything_ – hell, he was still tight-lipped about how many painkillers he knocked back when Alfred wasn't looking , but all in all, it wasn't the most important of things running through Alfred's head. Like the current force-field blocking Arthur from the kitchen.

"I can't see anything," Alfred admitted, still stood on the other side of the doorway.

"No," Arthur hedged, terror still written across his face in sheet white and lime green. "I wouldn't have thought that you would."

Salem yowled again, and something dark rumbled off in the distance.

"Al, find her, _please_!"

"Will you be alright?"

"For Christ – _yes_, you stupid – _go_!"

Alfred frowned for a second, Arthur glaring back, his hair lighting up like a halo and his eyes shining gold in a light that came through the window without a source. Then, when Arthur turned his back and went to the window, Alfred turned his own and disappeared through the back door.

"Salem?" he called, the air colder than it should be for April, and his breath fogged a little. Rubbing his arms, he called out with, "You dumb cat, where are you?"

She fell conspicuously silent and he cursed up a storm.

"Salem, come on, don't be a bitch, Art'll kill me if something happens to you."

Something cold and wet curled around his ankle, and he glanced down to be met with his own feet. Even as he stared, nothing appeared, and yet that cold wetness curled about his leg again. He went to the other end of the garden, shaking the feeling off as best he could, only for it to coil about both legs, slink up his stomach and down his arms.

"Salem, come on, _please_!"

She yowled again, a little pitifully, and his mouth tasted like ice, had all the texture and temperature of it, and his heart thumped in his chest, uneven, but not erratic. Arthur was keeping his head at least, though Alfred didn't doubt he'd swallowed painkillers dry the moment he turned his back in order to stay that way.

"Cat, where are you? C'mon kitty–kitty–kitty – oh, there you are! Come on."

He crouched to pick her up as she slinked closer, but as he dropped his height, his vision swam and his world went black.

* * *

><p>He came around to the sound of Arthur bustling about being his usual self, and for a second, he allowed himself to believe he'd just dreamt it.<p>

"Oh," Arthur hummed from somewhere above him. "You're awake. How do you feel? I _am_ sorry, love," he murmured then, carding a hand through Alfred's hair. "I forget you can react to the same things I do."

"The coldness," Alfred murmured back, leaning into the touch.

"Yes. I'm not sure what it was." He was lying, but Alfred let it slide for now. "But it was – it's been a while. It was old, and dangerous. That was a warning."

"The doorway?"

A rustle of fabric; a shrug. "I don't know – it was an external force."

Alfred though that over for a little while, as much as his brain thought to think it over what with the way his head had taken it upon itself to lean into Arthur's touch like a cat. Speaking of –

"Salem?" he asked, voice low and steady even as worry pricked a sharp pain inside his gut. "Is she okay?"

"She's fine," Arthur assured him. "Don't worry. She must have been with you for the whole time you were unconscious in the garden. I'm sorry it took me so long to get to you. I wish I knew what that doorway was about."

A grumble spilt from Alfred's mouth and he turned his head to press a kiss to Arthur's wrist, to the too-blue veins entwining under his skin like ivy on a trellis. Arthur chuckled.

"Still," he shrugged, leaning into to kiss Alfred's forehead. The younger met him halfway, caught him and held him and tasted paracetamol on his tongue. "You're alright, and that's all that matters."

In the kitchen, the radio began playing a popular rock song that Alfred vaguely remembered as one of his brother's favourites. Whilst Alfred cherished the familiarity of the _I'll pick you up off the ground, I've watched the weight of your world come down_ washing over him, Arthur stiffened above him, ear turned to the door.

"That wasn't on before," he whispered, low and steady, slow, cautioned. Not fooling Alfred for a second. "The odds of it playing Matthew's favourite song – Al, there's Someone in the house."

Alfred wanted to move, but found himself unable to, his limbs numb and lungs full of frozen air. He would have already been down the stairs if he could have moved, the moment Arthur started speaking enough to convince him of danger. As it was, he caught Arthur's wrist, felt the thrum of his pulse as surely as he felt is in his own chest and whispered a caution.

Arthur grinned; grim, and scared, and disappeared through the door. With him went his warmth and the light, and Alfred slept.

Later, Arthur called Francis.

"Shut up," he said before the older blond had even greeted him. "Shut up and listen to me. Gil's still here, even though he said he wasn't staying, and he was right. There's a demon loose. It's _much_ stronger that the one we faced in the wake of Matthew's death. Francis, I'm scared; when the demon announced its presence, I was blocked from leaving the living room by a force-field of magic.

"Francis, I'm terrified – that was _my own magic_. Why would I cast a spell like that? What's happening to me?"

The laugh from the other end was as sultry as it was dark, black silk on an oil slick, and it sent shivers down Arthur's spine as it danced its way across it, delighting in his fear, revelling in his confusion.

It was only as Arthur listened to the dial tone that he realised the laugh wasn't Francis'.

* * *

><p>Later still, as Alfred cooked a light meal, having found himself up-and-about enough to leave the bed despite Arthur's protests, Arthur took the time to write himself a letter that he hid behind the mirror.<p>

_TO THE ME THAT READS THIS,_

_There is nowhere safe, and you are just as dangerous as the demon. I don't know what the hell happened today, but something we did went seriously wrong. The demon tried to possess Al, but I don't think it succeeded._

_(I think it's got Francis.)_

_I felt the chill, the anger. But Al's Closed off._

_(NO ONE'S SAFE. GET THEM OUT.)_

_It failed. Knocked him for six, but it failed. And I wasn't there to help him, to distract the demon, to do ANYTHING, because for some INANE reason, I put a SPELL ON THE DOOR. I don't remember __when__ or __why__, but I did, and it let Al through, because he's dead – he's a Ghost –_

_(If the imprint is anything to go by, he's an angel. Why does that scare me this much? He's still Al.)_

_(THE DEMON'S GOT FRANCIS. __KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN__.)_

_**IT'S GOT EVERYONE AND YOU KNOW IT.**_

_There's something in the woods, it's taken a bit of you, you can see the bruises whenever you look in the mirror, plastered all over you. Everywhere, every time you close your eyes._

_(CAN AL SEE THEM TOO?)_

_**JUST GET THEM ALL OUT.**_

_I know there has to be an explanation for this somewhere, but please, future me, look around, find any other bright ideas you've had to protect yourself and negate them all. I don't want – I can't – I won't let – I can't risk being unable to help Al again._

_**D**__O__**N**__'T __**KI**__D __Y__**O**__UR__**SE**__L__**F**__._

_Y__**OU**__'R__**E **__**A**__L__**R**__EA__**DY **__D__**E**__A__**D**__._

_L__**O**__V__**E **__**AL**__W__**A**__Y__**S**__,_

_**M**__E __**XX**__X_

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

Art's **homicidal tomfoolery** is of course a reference to Homestuck's Act 5. If you've read it; I lost my shit. If you haven't; I lost my shit.

Okay, having never played it, I don't know if it's true, but according to this one fic I read which had FACE playing a game of _Worst Case Scenario_, besides painkillers, the **best cure for a headache is sex**. How true this is, I don't know, find out for yourselves.

The **song on the radio** is Three Days Grace's _Life Starts Now_.

**I hate to say this guys, but this will be my last update on anything for a while. I've got two weeks until I move into my dorms and then I have the fun of starting my life all over again. New home, new timetable, new subject, new friends, new everything. Whoopie. So if I don't update again this month, it'll probably be later in October. I'll try to write as much as I can, though I can't guarantee anything. I feel bad for it, but eh, there's not much I can do except try to keep up with myself.**

**++Vince++**


	7. Cause Living With Me

**For this chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **USUK

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Language. Off-screen character death, another short chapter

**Chapter Summary: **Arthur suddenly understands practically everything.

**Chapter Summary for real: **In which the puzzle is no longer a mystery but a mismatch of pieces.

**A/N: **Ahem; I am a Homestuck Holmesian and I am not ashamed. Also; I seriously need to develop a plot soon. Enjoy, my lovelies!

**Chapter 7: 'Cause Living With Me Must Have Damn Near Killed You (**_**How You Remind Me; Nickelback)**_

It seemed to Arthur that the world was out to get him. Oh, of course it wasn't, he wasn't that important to the Grand Plan's success or failure. He was a blip in the otherwise monotonous stream of humanity, and he'd long since contented himself with that knowledge. Of course, knowing that he was hardly worth the effort of the world to destroy him made the feeling no less potent nor any less real; indeed, it only seemed to intensify the feeling.

A week had passed since he wrote the note to himself begging him to get the people he cared for out of Saint Hetalia before trouble hit. Of course, having hid the note behind the living room mirror, he had done no such thing, preoccupied with the desire to locate and exorcise the creature – the _demon_ – possessing his every waking moment. It had latched on in the forest by the Asylum – by the lake – and clung.

Gilbert wasn't strong enough – Matthew, too, was too weak – to dispel the spirit with his own, though it wasn't for lack of trying.

_Alexandrus asked me to look after you._

"And what a fine job you're doing. I haven't had a decent sleep in days. I'm dead on my feet, so kindly piss off and haunt your cousin or something."

Asking for peace and quiet was a bit of a ridiculous idea, really, and true to form, no sooner had Gilbert vacated the chair in the far corner did Alfred bound in, papers in hand and a smudge of ink on his nose.

Such smudges were distracting and adorable, and when Arthur drew the younger to him, Alfred went willingly, not questioning, never questioning.

Alfred was warm and soft skin over solid muscle, rigor mortis in living skin, eyes so sky blue as to be black with thunder on the horizon, lips chapped and wet with a bemused, indulgent grin and Arthur had never loved something so much in all his life, doubted he ever would, but Arthur chose to follow Alfred's example and not question, choosing instead to wrap himself tight about long limbs and narrow hips, feel broad ribs and rugby shoulders, hold him close and whisper to never let go.

"Never," Alfred replied, hand in the small of Arthur's back, the other forearm bracing himself. "Yours, always yours."

Arthur laughed breathlessly, back arching and seeing lightning break the thunder of Alfred's eyes.

The world had, he thought later, hair damp and skin red from the pressure of the shower, stopped trying to destroy him, at least for the moment, whilst he caught his breath. Oh, it didn't stop moving, but it stopped actively trying to kill him.

"What was all that about?" Alfred asked abruptly, because he didn't believe in tact at the best of times, and his tone was too innocent to be even halfway genuine.

"You know exactly what that was about," Arthur griped back, rolling onto his side to face away from the American as he took his seat at the desk. He didn't know why he bothered, his back was a no less skinny sight than his chest.

As if responding to the self-deprecation – oh, of course he did, same heart and all meant they had the echoes of each other's emotions – Alfred said, "I hope you haven't stopped eating entirely."

The room flashed white for a second and Arthur bit his tongue against the _Tuc_ _cracker and a bit of beetroot yesterday_ and the _I had a Ryvita, two weeks ago_ that threatened to slip off his tongue, because Alfred wasn't in the mood to appreciate such humour. Shame really, it was a perfect opening.

Instead, he shrugged idly, and turned his gaze to the ceiling. "If I lose any more weight," he told the flocked wallpaper up there, "My organs will pack in. So the doctors say anyway, but I've proved them wrong before. Remember when they were convinced I had HIV? Oh, what a laugh we had then."

"That wasn't funny. Your weight dropped so quickly, and what with you just being out of prison… Art – fuck sake – you shouldn't joke about that. About any of it."

"Oh, hush," he chided, waving an idle hand. "Love, I'm not going anywhere. Not whilst this – this spirit – not whilst that's still here. It needs me to keep it alive, on this plain. Whatever."

"Art," Alfred started, and then stopped, sighing and saying nothing.

For a long moment, they lingered in silence, and then Arthur pushed himself to his elbows, frowning at the concave muscle of his stomach for a second, picking out his ribs, before flicking his eyes up to Alfred's hunched back.

"I'm sorry," he said, though really, he was nothing of the sort. "I know how bad you stress."

"How bad I stress?" Alfred repeated. "Dude, I'm so chill about this, you've no idea. I'm like an ice cube. It's none of my business, right? You weighing god-knows-what and shaking so badly sometimes I wonder how you haven't broken your arms yet, and how it feels like death to touch your skin because you're so cold, all the time and I wonder, I really, really wonder, how it is that you haven't keeled over out of sheer exhaustion because I can get away with not sleeping, I'm dead, but not you, you need sleep more than anybody, and how many hours have you got this last week? Five? Six hours? If that?"

"I – It's too loud."

"Then let me quieten it down."

"You can't, Al, it's not – the demon, it's _in here_," he tapped his temple with a knuckle and felt a laugh bubble deep in his throat. Still with that laugh in his voice, he added, "It's always been here. The Gateway, it – it was already open, it was already here."

"I don't understand."

"I am the demon."

"What."

"You heard me perfectly. I am the demon. Al – shit, read every note I've written since Matthew died, and then read notes I wrote twenty years ago. The pattern is _there_ right in front of us, and we've been missing it without the visible difference. I. Am. The. Demon."

Alfred stared at him. Arthur stared back, and he could see the horror of the realisation dawning across those no-longer-smooth features, his skin wax and creased with the stress of too-much-age in a too-young-body.

"Oh God."

"Hardly," Arthur quipped, and grinned a cracked smile at the filthy look he received in response.

"Arthur," Alfred whispered, and scrambled from the chair to throw his arms about the Englishman and squeeze him tight.

Arthur patted his spine, felt the harsh edge of bone beneath his clothes, and sighed into the shoulder pressed against his face. "I'm alright, love. I'm fine. It's all fine."

The room was white. The room had been white for the last five minutes, and the Ghosts had been screaming incessantly for the last half an hour.

* * *

><p>Arthur heard about Romulus long before Alfred took the call. It was only a matter of time, after all, and he had been waiting for the knowledge since the 23rd April. But the thing was, he knew from a first-hand source. He heard about the death of Romulus Vargas from Romulus Vargas himself.<p>

That was the thing about Clairvoyants. They were mediums, psychics, links to the Otherworld. They could look upon the Dead and see them for what they were; lost, and alone, and very, very scared. They could take the cold, immaterial hands of those that had passed on but remained behind, trapped in a place as immaterial as they were, and walk them through into the golden fields of heaven.

Arthur had been doing that for most of his life. At eight years old, a friend of his in England, back when he'd lived there, had died in a car accident. It had taken him all of five minutes to work out what was different about his friend, and five more to work out how to help him. Having done so, he Opened the Door and helped the little boy walk through. It was the first Ghost he redeemed, and it still clung to the forefront of his mind whenever he had a thought to spare towards the topic.

Being the only Clairvoyant on the island – to the best of his knowledge, Peter had taken on none of the traits, which was odd, Arthur thought, the power had been growing in the family since his mother bore William, and then for it to suddenly stop with Peter? There was something off about that, but he supposed there was a reason for it, not that it was one he necessarily understood – Ghosts flocked to him. Some were new, some were old, some were older still, but all spoke to him, begged for his help, sought vengeance and peace all at once, clamouring for attention. Some voices rose louder than others, and some were drowned in the cacophony, but he answered each and every one, seeking the children before the adults, and for twenty years, he had devoted himself to helping them.

Now, there were less than two dozen from the two hundred.

Romulus had come to him early on the morning of the 3rd May, resplendent in the white shroud of the dead, looking younger than Arthur had ever seen him, every crease of his eyes and brow smoothed into white gold, his laugh lines cutting grooves into the ever-present stubble and his eyes had been blank, mere pearls in the bed of silk that was his soul.

_Hello_.

Arthur smiled. "Redundant, but do go on."

_I'm dead_.

"I had noticed, yes. Do you need help crossing over?" he asked, joviality gone. It was rare a Catholic came to seek his help. There must have been an injustice in the death for any to come to him, heathen as he was.

Romulus' reply was laughing.

_No, it's quite alright. I just thought I'd stop by and let you know, tell you that I settled all of my affairs and that the boys will come to talk to you about my will later today. I have cut you into the business so that you might be better protected._

"I see," Arthur hummed, though he didn't; what need was there for it?

_You have nothing to do within the business. It is merely a precautionary measure should any of my hands question their orders. They do love to question the orders of a dead man. I'm sure Lovino will set the records straight should any of them wish to take issue._

"Why are you really here?"

_I see why the Alchemists want you. I can see you now, _Arturo_, I can see what you really are._

The very edge of Arthur's lip quirked upwards, and with a slight, measuring tilt of his head, he said, "And what am I?"

_You are as a Saint. More than man but less than God, suffering for the good of others, tearing yourself apart from the inside that you might save the ones you love. You are a good man, one of whom any would be proud._

"A Saint?" Arthur grinned. "That's something I've never heard. Well. Any news on the Alchemists whilst we're on the topic?"

_They are here, in the town, and they are coming closer to you still. Seek the ones you trust, and seek their loved ones. It is their enemies that you must identify._

"Convoluted, but okay," Arthur said, sitting straight now, the white of the room almost blinding. The fire burned lazily in the hearth, its embers laughing at the frowns upon its audience's faces. "Where should I begin?"

_That would be telling now, wouldn't it? There is one you trust above all others, seek them out and seek the one they love most._

"Francis," Arthur said. "You want me to start with him?"

_Yes. Think Arthur, the answer is there before you. In his car, there is a sign of the love he carries in his heart of hearts_.

Arthur thought about it, picking himself out of his chair and going to the window.

_You're a skinny bitch, you need to eat more_.

He laughed, genuinely laughed, and traced a finger over the angel carved into the window pane. "The air freshener," he said, palm flat on the glass, condensation curling around his fingers. "The girl."

_Yes. Jeanne._

"Her enemies? Fuck, Rome! Who would hate a schizophrenic girl?"

_The Alchemists. Jeanne is like you, only her eyes have turned upwards._

"She can see angels?"

_She can see angels. Michael, in particular, is fond of her._

"Does she know about me?"

_The girl has regular conversations with angels, and her personal tutor, for he specialises in teaching the mentally ill, is Francis. Of course she knows about you._

Arthur cast a deadpan look over his shoulder, but Romulus only grinned. "Okay," Arthur said. "Okay. I'll talk to Francis later, see what Jeanne's told him. Say, Rome."

_He is safe. The demon has not touched him. Oh yes, I know about that. I can see it deep within your mind, curling hateful and black, disgusting in its tendrils, spreading through your body will all the grace of __Cantarella__._

A sigh fogged the glass, picked the angel out in stark relief. "Thank fuck."

Romulus smiled at him, a bland little smile of easy peace.

_You will be alright, in the end. You were always going to be alright in the end. Say hello to Gilbert, won't you? And tell him from me that Lukas loves him still, and will see him soon. Do not allow the demon to take hold of you, Arthur. It is dangerous beyond any danger you have ever faced, but _

"What?"

But Romulus was already gone, and the room was bleached, the fire dead.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

Arthur, stop **quoting Peter Kay.**

The **demon is Lord English **trololol /shot

Any historians or _Assassin's Creed _fans out there? **Cantarella** is a poison made famous by being the Borgia family's secret family recipe. It's likely – according to the ever-reliable Wikipedia because I don't care enough to find the references in my Borgia history book – a type of arsenic, making the posisonee appear asleep for four hours, after which they presumably either wake up or snuff it.


	8. I'm Ready to Go, Lead Me Into the Light

**For this chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **USUK

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Language.

**Chapter Summary: **You think you've got it all worked out, but you're already dead.

**A/N: **Hallo once again, audience, it's been a long time! I feel like I owe you guys an update :I Enjoy, my lovelies~!

**Chapter 8: I'm Ready to Go, Lead Me Into the Light (**_**E.T.; Katy Perry)**_

'_That looks nothing like me.'_

'_Sure it does.'_

'_My nose isn't that big.'_

'_It's a beautiful nose.'_

'_I really bloody hate you.'_

'_Mmm, love you too.'_

Arthur woke with the remnants of a grin brushing against his jaw, fingers warm against his skin, burning where they lingered, Alfred's warmth too warm now. It was raining, a fine misty drizzle that turned cotton into lead and his limbs to stone. He was outside, in the community gardens, gravel digging into the bare skin of his neck and wrists.

He also had no memory of having got there.

But that, he supposed as he forced himself to his feet, raking his hands through his hair, was pretty standard by now.

'The Otherworld,' he hummed, picking his way over the trail of blood left by a young woman raped and murdered twenty-two years ago that refused to accept his help. She was crawling in a circle, as she was wont to do, and glared at him as he passed. He ignored her, heading for the exit.

Only to end up back where he started, lying flat on his back and staring up at the rain.

'Bollocks to this,' he groused, shoving himself to his feet and heading in the opposite direction.

After three more aborted attempts to leave the gardens, Arthur resigned himself to sitting on a bench and watching the Otherworld pass him by, at least until he'd Seen whatever it was he was there to See. The Ghosts never once acted without reason, so he supposed it made sense that he was forced to adhere to their wants, at least for now.

'What do you even want me for?' he demanded.

The rape victim crawled past, flipping him off between drags. He still wasn't sure why she did that, he was pretty sure her legs worked fine.

Arthur sighed, and slouched on the bench, spread his legs out and stretched his arms, frowning up at the sky.

'Come on, Jesus, hurry up, I'm soaked through.'

Something cold and wet slithered up his ankle, grasped tight, and yanked, pulling him off the bench and under it, swamping him in darkness.

* * *

><p>'Arthur! Arthur, wake up, you're dreaming!"<p>

The Englishman fought the grip on his wrists, ribs, waist, kicked at the sheets pinning his legs, thrashed and screamed and begged to be let go, please, it hurts, it burns, it's too hot, it's ice.

Alfred let go slowly, holding Arthur as flat as he could. His elder still got a decent hit to the ear in before the American had retreated to the other side of the bed. The moment he was free, he curled up into a ball, facing away, chest tight and throat tighter still.

'Art?'

'Go away,' he whispered. 'Please. Just. Leave me alone.'

Alfred's fingers touched his waist. 'Art.'

'Alfred, just. Sod off. Please.'

'_This isn't how it went.'_

'_We can't put how it went.'_

'_Why not?'_

'_Because the truth hurts.'_

After perhaps five minutes of holding his breath, Alfred sighed and rolled over, getting to his feet and the door clicked shut as he left.

'_But it has to hurt if we're going to learn from it.'_

'_And have we learnt? Have we learnt anything?'_

'_What do you mean?'_

'_We're making the same mistakes we always made, and we're not even trying to make things better.'_

For several seconds, minutes, hours, Arthur remained in that huddle of sheets, a locked ball of bone and lingering nightmares, and for several seconds, minutes, hours he stared at the wall, mind whirring in circles.

_Don't stress so much, it won't do you any good, you know._

_How about you go die? Wait, you already did that._

_Very funny._

'I thought so.'

Salem meowed and leapt up onto his hip, pawing until he opened his arms to give her space to curl up. He smoothed his hand over the curve of her spine and rested it there, felt the rise and fall of her body as she breathed, the slight vibration as she purred.

'What am I meant to do?' he asked her. 'What do I do?'

She meowed quietly and pushed back against his chest. He sighed and closed his eyes.

* * *

><p>'It's getting stronger by the day,' Arthur told the air around him as he picked at the crease of his elbow, veins crawling under the surface, black on the eggshell of his skin. 'I can feel it, creeping closer every time I breathe. Just lurking there, on my peripheral, on the very edges of what my senses can pick up. It's there, and we're at a stalemate.'<p>

His breath shuddered in his chest, and buried his face in his hands.

'It's there, and I can't do anything about it. Someone, please. Help me.'

* * *

><p>'What are you going to do?' Francis asked, and Arthur dug his nails into his elbow.<p>

'I don't know,' he admitted. 'What can I do? I'm dying, Francis. My whole body is packing up and if the Ghosts don't get me first, my organs will.' He grins a shallow, empty little grin. 'I've got HIV, remember?'

'Stop that,' Francis chided, but did nothing to move Arthur's hand.

The Englishman stared at the glass of whiskey put in front of him.

'Seriously? You really think that's a good idea?'

'At this point,' Francis shrugged, settling into his own chair. 'I don't think anything I do is going to change what happens to you.'

'That is not an excuse to get me drunk.' But he downed the drink anyway, hissing at the burn. 'Francis, how long's it been?'

'Since when?'

'Since Rome died.'

'Three weeks.'

'Funny,' Arthur breathed, running a finger around the lip of his glass. It whistled a low note. 'I only remember it being four days.'

'You've lost a fortnight? What the hell were you doing?'

'I don't know.' He was silent and then asked, 'Have I missed anything important?'

'Not really,' the Frenchman admitted. His nails scratched against the brittle hair of his beard, and then he said, 'Just some phonecalls. Oh, and Alfred's trip to Japan.'

'Oh, that was this month, wasn't it?'

'Yes. Yes, it was.'

'Oh.'

They fell silent for another five or so minutes. When they spoke again, it was Francis that broke first.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'That this is happening. That there isn't anything I can do.'

'It's fine,' Arthur dismissed. 'It was going to happen sooner or later, wasn't it? I was going to die soon enough, can't be me without something exploding in my face. First my brothers, and then my mother. Alfred and Matthew and Gilbert. It all designed to go tit's up, and the final prize is killing me.'

'Your own little murder mystery,' Francis smiled, nostalgic and fond.

'If only. I know it's going to be my own hand in the drawing room with the crowbar.'

'There wasn't a crowbar in our version of _Cluedo_,' Francis told him. 'We lost the card.'

'That's true, we did, didn't we? I'm ninety per cent sure your drunken escapades were responsible for that. And the loss of most of the _Monopoly _money.'

Francis scoffed. 'That was all on you, kitten. You tried using it as genuine currency. I seem to remember you still owe me five pounds.'

'Bullshit, you're the one who owes me money. Not that it's going to matter in a few months.'

'Is that all you've got left?'

Arthur shrugged. 'I can't imagine I've got much longer than August.'

Francis sighed softly, and rested his chin in his hands. 'Oh, kitten. What are you going to do?'

The Englishman tilted his head back to rest on the chair and closed his eyes. 'I suppose I'll set my affairs in order, while I've still got mind enough to do it. And then, I don't know. I suppose I'll go and look for the demon. See what it wants me for. See if I can stop it.'

'There's no Gilbert to stop you this time,' Francis reminded him.

'No,' Arthur agreed. 'There isn't. But maybe it's for the best. After me, nobody else will have to die. This whole thing will end with me.'

'Bullshit,' Francis snapped. 'What about me? Alfred?'

'Alfred will die when I do. We both know that. As for you, you're ugly enough to look after yourself.'

The Frenchman bit out a laugh. 'Very funny.'

'I thought so.'

* * *

><p>The Asylum grounds were closed off now, but Arthur hasn't spent twenty years of his life being a delinquent to be stopped by an insurmountable waist-high fence. Okay, it was a six-feet-high chain link fence topped with barbed wire, but he had wire cutters and a leather jacket.<p>

All in all, the foundations of the building covered perhaps three thousand feet from one end to the other, the grounds totalling maybe two acres. Arthur admitted he wasn't the best at maths, but it seemed about right to him. He could have been yards off, but really, at the end of the day, it didn't matter. He stepped over rubble and remnants of the lives lived and lost there and stood in a dip in the ground, amidst broken tiles and painted brick.

'Come on, then,' he said. 'Let's see what you've got.'

_Are you an idiot_?

'Apparently so,' he shrugged, and turned to look around himself. 'What are you waiting for? You'll hit me everywhere else. But not here. What's the matter? Are you _scared_?'

_For God's sake, Artie, don't provoke it!_

'What else am I meant to do?'

_Give me control_.

'Hah, no, I don't think so. Go back to the Gateway. It's not safe for you here. You'll be warped like the others.'

_I'm not leaving you on your own here. What do you take me for?_

'For Pete's sake! I'll be fine, go on.'

Gilbert remained silent for a moment, but the prickle on the back of his neck told Arthur he hadn't gone. His heart pounded hard in his chest, drowning out the whisper of the wind as it blew across the dead ground.

_Arthur_.

'Last warning. Go.'

_Fine._

Arthur didn't believe for a second that Gilbert had really gone, but his presence was nowhere to be felt, at least. He wouldn't be surprised if he'd gone and bugged Francis until the Frenchman took a hint and came to investigate a nagging worry that Arthur was up to no good. He had maybe twenty minutes to work out what the demon wanted.

If it wanted anything.

'What is this all about?' he called, and stepped out of the ring Alise's aura had left imprinted on the tiles, stepping instead onto the dead grass of the gardens. 'Surely there's a reason you're after me. What did I do? Exorcise your mother? Destroy your brother? Come on, tell me, what did I do?' He laughed. 'Was it even me? Is this something older? Something to do with my bloodline? No, no, I know! This is that Cult Rome was telling me about, isn't it? Have they summoned you to get me? Is that what it is? You'll take over me long enough to get me to them so they can rip me apart into what makes me up, make me into their monster and weapon? Is that what it is?'

There was no reply, of course, and as Arthur wandered back and forth across the dead zone, he stepped in deeper and deeper piles of ash. Not ash from the building, at least, he didn't think so. It didn't have the texture or smell of man-made material. No, he was stepping in the ash of the dead, stepping deeper and deeper into the Otherworld.

As he walked, he stopped occasionally, and picked up scraps of paper left from the destruction. Patient reports and nurse's diaries, shipment logs and visiting books. He scanned the names, the doses, the signatures, and dismissed each as something unlikely as the next.

'Come on,' he called again, voice tighter now. 'Answer me, tell me what you are! Tell me what you're after! If it's something I can give, I'll give it. But I can't do anything if you won't _talk_ to me!'

**Y**_o__**u.**_

'Oh, _now_ you're talking to me,' he sneered.

_**Tr**__A__it__**O**__r._

'Really? Am I really? Go on, tell me, how am I a traitor?'

_Y__**ou**__ F__**l**__e__**D**__, Ar__**t**__HU__**r**__. __**Y**__Ou __**RAN.**_

He paused his walk, scrubbed his hands through his hair, smearing ash more than he did shake it free, and frowned. 'I fled? What was I running from? You? Hardly a surprise now, was it?'

_Y__**ou**__ tR__**I**__e__**d**__ t__**o H**__id__**E**__. Y__**o**__U __**tR**__iED __**t**__o __**DISAPPEAR.**_

'Oh, great,' Arthur sighed, looking up to the sky. It was white with smoke clouds, of course, no sun or moon or sky to be seen. 'I had to attract the delusional demon, didn't I?'

M_**oR**__tA__**l**_.

'Why, yes, I am. Thank you for noticing.'

_**ANGEL.**_

'Wow, are you flirting? Is _that_ what this? Are you hankering after a – no, I'm not even going there. That's ridiculous. What do you _mean_, "Angel"?'

There was no reply.

'Oi! I'm talking to you! You said "angel," in reference to me! What do you – oh. _Oh_.'

He turned on the spot to look about himself again, but there was nothing except the shadows of the Ghosts still haunting the Asylum to be seen. He stood there for several minutes looking out at their lurching gait, watching broken legs drag and broken necks swing with the steps, and he smelt the blood and burning flesh in the air, felt it seep into his own, fill in the gaps where he was missing pieces, all the little bits of him torn away from a lifetime helping them slotting back into place with the dead souls pushing always at the badly bolted fence protecting him from possession. A temporary measure at best.

He'd have to get out.

He needed to get out.

But he'd never been this deep into the Otherworld before. This wasn't the Spectral Plain. This was further in than that. This was somewhere he'd never thought he'd go.

This was Hell.

**++End Chapter++**

Not much to say about this one! I don't know guys, I feel so bad for leaving you in a lurch like that. I'll try to work more on this, but I'm just so bad at time management.

Also, I have a tumblr, feel free to say hi! Vinnie2757, of course!

**++Vince++**


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